


Crossing the Aisle

by SantivaPotter_93



Series: AU Political Glee [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, American Politics, Drama, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Secrets, M/M, Meet the Family, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantivaPotter_93/pseuds/SantivaPotter_93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossing the aisle—to vote, unite, or otherwise co-operate with members of another political party in order to achieve governmental or political action. Even as the children of some of the most powerful political leaders, Sam Evans and Mercedes Jones find this a rather challenging feat. A series of one-shots featuring Democrat!Mercedes and Republican!Sam. Now COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossing the Aisle

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, though this is an AU story set in the world of politics, there will be no political agenda pushed through this fic. I could honestly care less if you're Republican, Democrat, or Independent so long as once you're 18 you do yourself and those around you a favor and vote. If you feel like I'm not keeping my end on this part of the deal message me privately. Okay? Awesome. Secondly, Crossing the Aisle isn't so much of a continuous story but more of a compilation of one-shots, so there will be some time jumping here. And in the political setting, in this AU the Democrats control the Senate, Obama has been re-elected and the Republicans control the House. A special thank you to my favorite Klainer Jamie for pre-reading & Jill for beta-reading.

When Sam was younger, he had dreams where she used to wear nothing but leather—the shiniest he could imagine. It would almost glimmer against her form and entrap her breasts, offering them up to him as if they were the sweetest chocolate delight. It was a bit of a ridiculous fantasy; he had only been 17 when they first began and it didn’t help that he’d gotten into the habit of goggling Halle Berry as Catwoman. In his own little world she’d wear an outfit complete with knee length boots that were always left on and a half mask that she would keep between her fingers during the foreplay. Somewhere between the shedding of his boxers and finally sheathing inside of her, the mask would fall to the floor. Her hands would claw at his back with every thrust and there was even a time when she meowed just for him. They may have borderline on ridiculous, his fantasies, but they never once closed without the same ending—an out of breath teenager and the desperate need for a new set of boxers. However back then, he could have never pushed her down on his black silk sheet and slowly caressed her thick thighs, making sure to press soft kisses from the bottom of her ankles to the underside of her knees. He could have never tied her to the bed post with her own stockings that he’d remove with his teeth, making sure to tug the offending fabric down from every direction. No, back then that fantasy of a seventeen year old boy had been simply preposterous…and no one needed to know that years later he’d been able to see that particular dream come true.

“Dear, have you seen Quinn Fabray?” his mother asked from his left side. “She’s in the periwinkle blue, a lovely color on her, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam scanned the lavish ballroom before him, but made no effort to pinpoint the daughter of one of the laziest Senators that he had ever met. Not that he was at liberty to say such. As the son of one of the Republican Party’s most prized Senators, and former Senate pro-tem, Sam Evans often found himself at liberty not to say much aloud. He stood at his mother, Martha’s side as they entered the gala that Irish Ambassador Rory Flanagan held every other year. It was mostly a party for the right, but a few from the left were bound to arrive to shake up things. Flanagan was a man who was a bit too fond of a little bit of trouble.

“Such a shame that things didn’t work out between her and that Puckerman boy,” his mother continued, leading Sam or dragging to their table.  She had an iron grip on his left arm that could have been conceived as painful if he weren’t so accustomed to being shuffled around the same dull charity events in which no one actually gave an honest dime about. This particular evening it would be table 215, his mother’s favorite number. It was already crowded by his father’s younger brother Dwight, and his wife Mary. Neither greatly fancied the demure of one of the oldest country clubs in Virginia or most of its members, but both saw the importance of showing up for at least a few events each year.

“Mary, darling,” Martha Evans greeted as she and Sam sat down.

Speaking with his aunt and uncle always made Sam wonder if things could have been different had he’d been their son. Maybe at 17 his leather fantasy could have become a reality. _Or at least the lace one_ , Sam remembered as a gaggle of girls with stretched, stained faces from the best that beauty physicians could offer, and forms so slim that they could slither through any crack and crevice passed by him. Each wore the same smile: one that stretched their stiff faces, highlighting their surgery since their skin could no longer produce natural wrinkle lines and thankfully showed no teeth. Thankfully because Sam Evans enjoyed his 20/20 vision and planned on keeping it for as long as he could, which meant keeping himself at a minimal safe distance from the blinding light was often emitted from their artificial whitening, even at night.

As unnerving as the view of the Barbie look-a-likes were, Sam was pleased by the sight of lace from their dresses. It wasn’t the seductive shade of black or red, nor did it enhance an aspect of their shapes—he was never going to find a waist that he could wrap one hand around appealing or have his mouth water over mosquito bite breasts that had to be constantly caged and lifted just stand out in the slightest. _There is no Wonderbra in the world that could help Sugar Motta,_ Sam pondered lightly as he politely nodded as the girls strutted past. _Perhaps she could get her father to put some of that fortune to some good honest research for her._ Sam couldn’t fight a small smile. At least his mother had taught him the value of keeping some things to himself.

“Glad to see that Al has his daughter in something more appropriate this year,” Martha Evans sighed once the girls were out of earshot. “Sugar is such a sweet girl but she’s got so much to learn. Now Quinn I’m sure would be a lovely role model for Al’s daughter and she’s sure to make a great wife…”

Sam had checked out the minute his mother mentioned the blonde beauty queen again. He instead leaned back slightly to get a better view of the night’s attendees, searching through the sea of countless faces for any sight of _her._ Apparently his behavior was just a tad out of line: Sam barely had a moment to himself before the soft buzz from his cell phone brought him quickly back into reality.

‘ _You could at least look like you care,’_ the message from his aunt read. A small smile threatened to form as Sam winked at his favorite aunt.

“How are Stevie and Stacie?” Sam asked aloud interrupting his mother’s discussion. Dwight Evans seemed slightly pleased by the opportunity of distraction but it was Mary who answered, “They’re darling. But they won’t stop asking when Cousin Sam is coming back to visit!”

“As soon as I can get some time off from the university,” Sam promised.

“How is Sarah Lawrence?” Dwight asked.

“Oh it’s great. I get to spend every day surrounded by such lovely lesbians,” Sam teased, “usually rather angry and very much butch but still lovely girls.”

“You are incorrigible, Samuel,” Mary replied fighting her own smile. “And you know better than to try to talk bad about my alma mater.”

“I never said I had a problem with lesbians,” Sam replied winking again at his aunt.

“Perhaps you should have reconsidered the Columbia offer,” his mother snipped.

“I’m not interested in living in New York mother,” Sam replied failing miserably at keeping his tone in check. He had wanted to specify his reasoning behind it—New York was far too close to his parents and their never-ending stream of bullshit—but he thought it best not to offend her with such _abrasive_ language. “I quite like Sarah Lawrence. Besides, I’d like to think that all of my friends would miss me.”

“Yes, speaking of friends,” his mother grumbled turning to the grand staircase that hours earlier everyone had been forced to parade down. “They’re here.”

Indeed Ambassador Flanagan’s favorite two douses of trouble had arrived, though Sam was sure that his mother and her irrational brand of judgment had yet to take in the sight of the Jones family—no she was much more preoccupied with the Lopez’s for now. Alejandro stood at the forefront, almost guarding his party of six. It was wholly unnecessary, in Sam’s opinion. The room may have been filled to the brink with right wing conservatives, all who were itching to strike down the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, but no one was going to verbally slander Alejandro’s daughter Santana, a law student at Columbia who’d recently been outed by the media, and her girlfriend Brittany S. Pierce—at least not in within earshot.

Santana was a beautiful girl, despite her family championing for the other side of the aisle, thicker than most of the “Sugar Mottas” that Sam had to endure at these types of events, and she was armed with a quick wit and wicked tongue. The latter he’d learned from previous personal experience, back when his only goal in life was to get the fuck off of Wisteria Lane, by any means necessary. She sent him a small brief smile and for a nanosecond, Sam could appreciate the good old days, but he was on to better things and so was she.

“Where are you going?” Martha Evans asked her watching her son rise.

“To go talk with Quinn,” Sam replied simply, taking his glass with him.

The further he got from his relatives, the more the whispering increased. Years ago, Sam may have been a tad more conscious of it; he had never been a fan of being the center of attention. This naturally made him the perfect target years prior when he made the “rash” decision to abandon a job with one of the top law firms in DC and then two later refuse a teaching position on Columbia’s instructor staff, all in favor for pursing his graduate degrees in Writing in peace at Sarah Lawrence. The circle of nosy politician and their children had run rampant with news for this circle for far too long. However as the only son of former Republican senate pro-tem, the trials and tribulations between Sam Evans and his parents would always be of popular discussion.

As Sam moved among the sea of familiar faces, he smiled politely and nodded when due—such gestures were typically reserved for the _cops,_ children of politicians, like Wesley and David. Both men were the sons of members from the House of Representatives, of whom Sam had gone to an all-boys pre-school with. There was also Tina Cohen-Chang, whose father had just crossed the aisle _again,_ this timeto formally join the independent side. Nonetheless Sam still regarded her as the honest to God nicest woman he had ever encountered. Sebastian Smythe was also among the crowd—that sexually ambiguous asshole who had made every moment of their time together in school a damn competition, though Sam did his best to be polite. He now had Sam’s sloppy seconds as the rising attorney at Schuester and Sons in DC. Sam could frankly care less.  Will Schuester was an ass anyway.

As Sam passed by another small group of former classmates, he was reminded of one of the good things about high school. In fact, _she_ had been the best thing about William McKinley Preparatory. His growing smile was egged on by the fact that Missy Gunderson, a stay at home mother with a nasally voice, passed by him, her silk dress dancing lightly against his skin. Silk, just like those damn sheets at his mother had insisted on purchasing. _100% Brazilian, dear._ _Everything is in the detail Samuel,_ she had told him when they first purchased them. _And besides, you should never seek anything but the best._ Those precious sheets had later been ruined by drops of blood during their first time together, but Sam hadn’t cared. He never cared with her. All he had wanted was _her._

“Sam!”

Quinn Fabray was now directly in view, crowded by her thin mother Judy, who even under heavy layers of makeup, looked as if she’d seen better days. Her father Russell wore a leering smile that grew exponentially at the sight of Sam and her sister Frannie sat at the table, bored to tears as her husband—second, or third Sam wasn’t quite sure—tried to entertain her.

“Samuel it’s so good to see you,” Judy Fabray greeted putting on her best smile. “Isn’t it, Quinnie? Doesn’t Samuel look handsome tonight dear?”

Quinn gave Sam a bright smile. “It seems Sarah Lawrence is agreeing with you.”

“I’d like to think so,” Sam replied setting down his glass and offering his right hand to her. “Shall we?”

Sam led Quinn towards the middle of the ballroom where several of the hungry politicians were gathered dancing with their wives, girlfriends and of course the mistresses. It was the perfect view for both of their parents. This particular part of the show after all was for them.

“I must say, you’re getting much better at this,” Quinn complimented as Sam spun her around. “Did you finally buckle down and take a class?”

“More like _private_ lessons,” Sam said smiling softly as he thought back to fonder memories.

“Slick Sam,” Quinn chuckled. “But you might want to keep yourself in check before you show off something that you can’t hide.”

“Interested in switching sides now, are we?” Sam replied cheekily.

“Never!” Quinn laughed.

“Did you hear about Puck?” Sam asked.

“Yes, I was sad that I couldn’t make the ceremony. I’m sure Lauren made a lovely bride,” Quinn answered.

“Really, not upset that you lost your _best man_?”

“Watch it Evans,” Quinn frowned. “I’ve got plenty of dirt on you too, remember? And with Puck sailing off into the sunset that just means that you and I will be spending much more time together. Just like the old days.”

“Not exactly,” Sam sighed. “We broke it off. She broke it off.”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn replied. “I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.”

As Sam twirled her around for good measure, Quinn’s words led his eyesight past the grand staircase to a cluster of tables where a group of Showmance Republicans— _she_ had once referred to them as Divas, insisting that both sides had them, which Sam supposed was true—sat drinking merrily. Among them was Finn Hudson, the poster boy for the upcoming generation of the Grand Old Party. Finn had always been the star, quarterback of the football team in high school, point guard in college and he was the son of well-regarded Tea Party congresswoman, Carole Hudson. However, Finn was as dumb as rocks. Sam even as he struggled with dyslexia, had been forced to tutor Hudson for a time in high school. Somehow Finn managed to trick his way into snagging a High School diploma and a Bachelor’s Degree. Apparently Tina Cohen-Chang’s good friend Michael was to be given much credit for the latter achievement; now Finn worked as an intern for some poor Senator. On the arm of Finn Hudson was Rachel Berry, the daughter of two highly influential Log Cabin Republicans. She was best known for her voice, even Sam could admit that it was quite nice—but he’d heard better.

“Don’t tell me that you’re still seeing her,” Sam whispered, damn well knowing the answer.

“Well I do have the best tongue on this side of the Hudson,” Quinn replied.

Sam’s shoulders shook in laughter. “Well they tell me that I have the best lips on this side of the Hudson. Perhaps we should tango.”

“Oh I’d love to Sam,” Quinn beamed, “but you’d have to get a little reconstructive surgery _down there_.”

Sam chuckled as he brought Quinn further into his embrace. He could see his mother practically wetting herself in the soft paradise pink two-piece Chanel suit that she’d dragged him with her to purchase earlier that day. Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“We all of have our secrets,” he mumbled softly.

“I believe I told you that the time I caught you and Santana freshman year in high school.”

Sam nodded. “Did you two ever…?”

“No,” Quinn said. “We hated each other. Sworn enemies.”

“I thought the term back then was freniemes?”

Quinn giggled against Sam’s chest and when the song came to an end, he pressed a light kiss to her cheek and whispered, “Think this’ll be enough to satisfy your parents?”

“For the meantime,” Quinn replied as he straightened up. “You know your mother is going to suggest that you and I have dinner soon. Do what you must to get back on _her_ good side so that we can make it a double date.”

They parted ways before the quintet could strike up another tune, Quinn back to her family and Sam deeper into the crowd. His goal was to bug Blaine Anderson, son of Levi and Astoria Anderson and heir to an international, multi-billion dollar company. Though his family was not formally immersed in politics, anyone who hoped to get the nomination for the Republican ticket was currently playing nice with the Anderson family—including Sam’s father Richard. Blaine, who stood at his parents side as they entertained a pair of younger members from the House, was a decent guy by Sam’s standards—intelligent, loyal, had a good sense of humor and played fair but he was ridiculously protective and stubborn, a fact Sam remembered as he watched his old friend retrieve his cell phone and fight a smile at the message he read.

Changing his course of direction, Sam headed straight for the open bar. A tall, thin man stood towards the end of the bar, his back to everyone and Sam waited until he crept up right behind him before whispering, “You look quite ravishing in that blazer tonight.”

Kurt Hummel leaned forward, to catch himself in his laughter before turning around to roll his eyes at Sam.

“As much as I desperately want to say horrible things about you Evans, I must admit you do clean up quite nicely.”

“Why thank you Kurtsie, you know that I aim to please,” Sam continued making sure to invade Kurt’s personal space.

The always impeccably dressed and son of former Ohio Congressman, Burt Hummel, shook his head as he pulled out his phone. “Blaine says ‘fuck off, Evans’ and that you should ‘suck someone else’s dick, preferably your own.”

“But Kurtsie, doesn’t Blainey-boy know that’s no fun,” Sam teased as Kurt laughed again.

“And don’t you know that hitting on gay man after you’ve done a few rounds with Quinn Fabray doesn’t exactly help her MO.”

“But you’re just too irresistible Kurt,” Sam shrugged. “Besides, I’d hardly call that dance ‘doing a few rounds’. I don’t know about you, but my rounds are done between the sheets, preferably with legs in the air…”

“You are too much!”

“Well, I’m an Evans man through and through.”

“Is that what they call it, now? Well, it’s no wonder that she decided to en—”

Kurt broke off as he saw the tension strike in Sam’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” he recoiled. “I was under the impression—she told me that the split was mutual.”

Sam rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze to other things, like the flowing ember chiffon dress that one of the other _cops—_ Maggie, he thought her name was—wore.

“Really, Sam?” Kurt frowned.

“See Maggie in the chiffon dress over there?” Sam asked returning to his drink. “She wore a dress just like it for me once. It was shorter and had no back, but the same color, with a pair of black peep-toe shoes. We had been in Chicago for my birthday. It had been cold as hell that night but she insisted on taking me dancing to this Spanish club she had heard about.”

“She told me that you two danced the night away that night,” Kurt said after a moment. “I didn’t realize that you remembered all of that.”

“I remember everything,” Sam replied softly.

“And I think that’s your problem,” Kurt said. “She doesn’t know that you remember everything. I think beyond the fact that William Jones will forgo all his reservations about gun control just to shoot you if he ever finds out, she ended things because she still thinks that all you really remembered was—”

“The sex?” Sam guessed not needing Kurt’s confirmation. For a while he had thought that too. It had just been sex between them he would remind himself constantly, just really great sex that he should be able to find anywhere else. Yet there was really nowhere else. Where Sam found good sex, he also found dull personalities, women with little drive, and girls who were too judgmental and too dependent on their families’ money. None of them were _her._

“You should talk to her,” Kurt suggested.

“I’ve tried,” Sam said, “but it’s hard to talk when she won’t listen. Or show up at events that she knows I’ll be at.”

“She’s coming,” Kurt said. “She just had a dress malfunc…”

Kurt didn’t bother finishing that sentence as Sam’s attention was far from him, far from reality or perhaps too closely focused on it. None of that mattered though, because she had arrived. She was dressed in a deep lavender gown, strapless with a sweetheart neckline and a cinched waist to show off her curves. As she glided down the steps of the grand staircase, Sam was hit with all the things that had attracted him in the first place: she wasn’t afraid to show off that she was different, that she enjoyed eating a full meal and didn’t bother with permanently altering with what given naturally to her. Sure, it set her apart from the crowd and earned her the nickname of “burnt out diva” but none of that mattered to him. Mercedes Amber Jones had arrived. And she was the most beautiful thing that Sam Evans had ever seen.

Sam hadn’t been aware of his physical reaction to Mercedes’ arrival until Quinn suddenly reappeared, swooping him into the waltz that was playing while glaring at him.

“Have you lost your _fucking_ mind?” she hissed. “My parents and half the people near me thought you were going off the deep end just now starring at Mercedes Jones as if she were your last meal!”

Sam nodded stiffly—his silent thanks to Quinn, just a few steps further and he could have stepped into the perfect view for Martha Evans—and fell in line with the dance, all the while trying to keep his eyes off of Mercedes.

“Quit starring,” Quinn snapped. Sam complied—partially. He managed to train his focus on the portrait of George Washington that stood directly in front of him on the west wall and brought Quinn closer in his arms, but he could still see her out of the corner of his eyes as she stood with her back to him, chatting lightly with Brittany and Santana.

Brittany, who was gaining a reputation among the other _cops_ that Sam had grown up with as a bit of an Elle Woods, was the first to catch Sam’s wandering eye. She poked Santana on her side and the two of them locked eyes for a brief moment before she went back to her conservation with Mercedes.  They were talking about him now, he was quite sure, especially since Mercedes’ right hand had landed on her hip—her classic diva stance—as she shook her head no. Brittany shrugged at him apologetically but Sam continued to glare at Santana, completely abandoning the premise of the portrait. Santana shifted uncomfortably under Sam’s gaze, still chatting with Mercedes until the dark skinned beauty dropped her right arm dramatically. Their conversation ended quickly thereafter and before Santana turned to speak with her father, she distinctively jerked her head to the left—toward a set of doors. The cell phone in Sam’s coat pocket buzzed quickly after. It was from Kurt.

‘ _She wants you to meet her in 20 minutes on the lower balcony that oversees the rose garden,_ the message read. _You’re only getting 5 minutes of her time so make it count!’_

When he reached the balcony that stood over the club’s prized bed of roses, she was waiting for him. Mercedes Jones hated waiting for people, a fact that Sam learned early on in his senior year of high school. However, for him she had a habit of making an exception. She’d waited for him to come to her, love her, be loved by her. Her back was turned to him, as she over looked the garden and fountains below. Sam placed a soft kiss on her exposed shoulder, but she quickly whipped around and out of his reach.

“What the hell Sam,” she snapped.

“Well hello there, it’s good to see you too!”

“No Sam! We agreed. We’re not doing this anymore.”

“So now you can’t say hello?” Sam pushed glaring at her until she faced him head on. He’d almost forgotten how beautiful her face was. His memories did her little justice and those eyes— large brown doe eyes that had constantly filtered through his bullshit and opened him up something better, to be someone better.

“Mercy—”

“Don’t you dare, _Mercy_ me Samuel Dwight Evans! I said no. It was just sex—”

“Oh cut the bullshit Mercedes,” Sam snapped. “You and I both know that it was more than that.”

“Maybe when we were seniors in high school,” she replied, “but this is the real world Sam and we _can’t_. I thought you understood that!”

“Screw the rest of them!”

“Screw the rest of them? You mean your parents? My parents? Yes Sam, let’s just run away together and completely forget about the rivalry that’s been raging between our families for _years_. Never mind the fact that your father’s camp tried to accuse my mother of being a cheating whore on the last campaign trail or that my father used your struggle with dyslexia as a grand metaphor for your father’s failures in Congress.  Have you forgotten how he harped on the fact that I had to tutor you throughout junior year, implying that the leadership from the liberal left is vital to the success of democracy in this nation, especially if it’s currently being run into the ground by the Republican Party? And don’t even get me started with our extended families’ other fun times that run all the way back to the Civil Rights Era! Sam, they would _kill_ us. Is that what you want?”

“I just want you,” he said falling captive to her fiery gaze. “Mercy, I need you.”

Mercedes let out a soft sigh as her face contracted in slight pain.

“No you don’t Sam,” She said taking a few steps toward him. “What we had was beautiful, but we were kids when we started this and we let ourselves chase this into a wild fantasy. Do you remember the end? The flying to this city and that? Lying to our families constantly so we could spend all that money? And even then I barely saw you Sam. We barely skyped and when we were together we were wrapped in bed sheets or pressed against closet doors trying to feel something. We’re…we’re grown now Sam, we have to leave this behind us. We have to let go.”

Sam stood there silently, letting her words wash over him and Mercedes took that moment as the perfect chance to head back.

“Is that all you remember?” he finally asked her. “I remember the smiles, the way your face would light up when I did something to make you giggle. I remember thinking that I’d never laughed so much until I met you. I remember the movie marathons, the fact that you cry relentlessly every time Dobby dies in the last Harry Potter film. In fact you can’t even read the seventh book because by the time that damn owl dies you’ve practically flooded the room with tears. I remember the travelling and the void left by the distance. The kinky emails we would send each other to get by, along with the happy ones, the angry ones and the emails we sent when we were simply bored to tears. But I have to tell you Mercy, I’ll always remember the somber ones because that’s when you opened your soul to me. That’s when I could see more than just Mercedes, the daughter of one of the most powerful Democrat Senators but _Mercy_ , a passionate, beautiful woman who has such a big heart. I remember the fact that despite popular belief your favorite color isn’t purple, it’s green. You wrestle with your fingers when you’re about to sing or when you’re nervous, like _now_ and every time you come your toes curl—but they also curl when you’re really _fucking_ happy. Yes, Mercy we had a lot of sex, a lot of great sex, but I’ll always remember the feeling of holding you in my arms after we were both spent. I’ll always remember the dreams that I’d spin, trying to think of a better solution for this, for _us_ , a better way to give you all of the love that you deserved.”

He paused letting his words sink in for her. She was on the verge of crying. He could see the tears building up in her eyes. But as much as he hated to watch her cry, he needed her to understand. She had to see.

“Do you remember Philadelphia?” Sam asked softly. “It was Memorial Day weekend, the last one we spent together. We went to that old club and you mesmerized everyone with your rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s Songbird.”

She nodded slowly, drifting closer towards him as she sang, “ _And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before._ ”

“Mercy, I know we weren’t perfect, but…” He was so close, in just a few more steps and she would be back in his arms and he in hers. Her eyes had dropped from his gaze, so Sam lifted her chin up and wrapped his left arm around the dip of her waist.

“Sammy,” she begged. It came out as a desperate whisper, a soft plea that pulled at his heart strings and drugged him further into her embrace. He wouldn’t be letting go this time.

“Sammy, I—”

“Mercedes!”

She flew out of Sam’s arms as if he were some biblical leper. Though, in the eyes of Devon Jones, her older brother, Sam supposed that was pretty damn accurate. Even with the space between them, there was no way that Devon hadn’t seen them or at least inferred.

“Has Daddy started his speech yet?” Mercedes asked softly, her voice slightly shaken.

No, but he’s about to,” Devon replied glaring at Sam. “C’mon Mercedes we need to go.”

Once both were out of sight Sam groaned loudly and swore. Not only had he missed the opportunity to kiss her, but they had been caught by Devon, William Jones’ golden boy. Sam needed a new plan, he needed to re-group. Kurt was clearly on his side; surely he would be of some help. As would Blaine, and Sam had enough dirt on Quinn Fabray to know that she would be at his side even if she wasn’t desperate to get some alone time with her favorite brunette.

By the time Sam made it back to his seat, dinner had been served at his table and William Jones III had risen to the podium to give his speech.

“I hope that leave of absence was spent with Quinn Fabray,” his mother said as she picked at her food, half listening to the family rival’s words. “I saw that she stepped out shortly after you did.”

“Yes,” Sam replied. “We’re planning on having dinner later next week.”

“Oh good,” Martha Evans smiled.

“Mercedes Jones looks quite stunning in that dress,” Mary Evans said, seemingly to no one in particular.

“Oh Mary, please, you’re _too_ kind,” Martha scoffed. Sam frowned deeply, toying with the idea of giving his mother a piece of his mind, but a soft cool hand from under the table made him pause.

_“I should go,” she said her voice still airy as Sam lightly kissed the top of her right breast. His left hand was preoccupied with massaging her other breast, and he grinned as he elicited soft sighs from her._

_“Stay,” he mumbled against her rich skin, which was still damp from their earlier activities._

_“Sammy, I can’t. You know I—” her words dropped off into a low groan as Sam sunk back into her tender flesh._

_“What was that Mercy?” Sam grunted as he fell into a steady rhythm. Her head was soon thrown back, leaving her neck exposed for his kisses. He leaned forward and nipped lightly at her exposed flesh, his hips starting to push into a faster tempo. Sam’s right hand dropped to Mercedes’ waist and the left latched onto the pillow under her raven curls as he focused on picking up the pace, trying desperately to ignore how tight the fit was and how good it felt to be surrounded by her. Her breathless groans didn’t help._

_“Please Sammy,” Mercedes gasped as her body rocked with his. “More. More.”_

_More was what she wanted and more was what she got as Sam used the headboard for leverage to aim deeper and Mercedes wrapped her legs around his waist. More was what she got until she could moan it no longer and the only word on her lips was his name._

_“Sam. Sam. Sam!”_

_He laughed softly into her skin once she’d come back down from her high. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t come with her that time or that she really should be going. What mattered was the now. The fact that she was there, that they were together._

_But a soft knock interrupted their bliss. They scrambled to throw their clothes on, both at a loss of what to do or say to whoever was behind Sam’s accursed bedroom door. He’d just pulled up his jeans when the face of his Aunt Mary peeked in._

_“Your mother and father are going to be home in twenty minutes,” she said as if there wasn’t a half-naked girl in her nephew’s bed—let alone **this** particular girl. “And I need you downstairs before she arrives so you can set the table for dinner. I believe your father is bringing the Andersons with him.”_

_Sam blushed and nodded. His aunt went to close to door, but an outburst from Mercedes stopped her._

_“Please don’t tell—”_

_“Oh darling, all you have to do is keep that smile on his face,” Mary assured the young girl. “Don’t worry about the rest.”_

Sam squeezed his aunt’s hand in return and tried to put his focus back on Senator Jones, but a few minutes in, his phone buzzed again. Ignoring the harsh glare from his mother— _as if she actually gives a shit—_ Sam read the message from a number that wasn’t in his contacts.

_‘And I wish you all the love in the world,’_ the text message said, _‘but most of all I wish it for myself.  Meet me at our spot. Midnight.’_


	2. A Mother's Intuition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Evans family has much to celebrate this spring so Mary Evans is holding a luncheon in Sam’s honor and the Jones family has been cordially invited. But seems that this particular invitation does not extend to everything…

“Do you know who I saw at the brunch Senator Colson’s wife held in Surroundings Floral Nursery yesterday?”

Six sets of heads turned to stare bewilderedly at the matriarch of the Jones home. Irene Jones was many things: a mother, care-giver, generous philanthropist; however she was not the run of the mill politician’s wife. She didn’t wait on her husband’s words with bated breath or shadow his footsteps like a hawk— _You want a quick divorce, Mercedes,_ Irene used to tell her only daughter, **_that’s_** _the way you do it_ —and she made sure that everyone, including her husband William Jones, knew it. When Irene Jones went to her events, she was kind, but quiet, spoke only when absolutely necessary and gave compliments only when she saw fit. There had been many women who had come and gone on the Hill that found her “weak”—but in her thirty years of shuffling through the forefront and backstage of DC politics, Irene Jones had made it clear to those who mattered that she was far from weak. And if she was bringing back news from what she privately referred to as the “seventh circle of Hades” then something _interesting_ was about to happen.  

“I saw Mary Evans at Regina Colson’s event,” Irene said as she took her seat at the dinner table.

“ _Evans_? Why are we talking about an Evans?” Rashad Jones, the oldest of William and Irene’s children, inquired with a harsh frown.

He sat next to his wife of five years, Morgan. Together they had the sugary sweet political life: two and a half kid and a nice sized house. Rashad worked as an advisor to Mercedes’ father on the Hill. Morgan was a stay-at-home mother who also made do with a small children’s boutique that she helped run with her mother, Julia. It was disgustingly perfect, in Mercedes’ eyes, and soon Rashad wouldn’t be the only one “living the life”. Though Devon Jones was the first male of the Jones family not to be directly involved in politics in 50 years, not that anyone was counting, no one expected it to stay that way. It was no secret that while William Jones paid for medical school without a moment’s pause, he fully expected his son to pull his weight when he deemed necessary, like aiding with the consultation process in the Left’s attempt to solidify the constitutionality of Obama Care. Dev had married a beautiful Columbian spit-fire, Isadora, who Mercedes adored. She sat to her sister-in-law’s immediate right, while her husband sat across from his sister. Dev was the only one who didn’t bother gawking at his mother. No, Dr. Jones found it much more prudent to exam his baby sister as if she were a patient that held the first new strain of swine flu.

“Did you know that Samuel will be graduating from Sarah Lawrence in just a few weeks?” Irene continued pleasantly. “He’ll be in the top 1% of his class. Plus his authorial debut is released at the beginning of next month and it’s already receiving rave reviews by the Times.”

“He’s a conservative,” Morgan said.

“It’s a fantasy novel,” Irene explained. “Not quite sure what it’s about but I do plan on reading it.”

“Okay, anything that has the last name Evans does not belong in this house,” Devon mumbled finally turning from his sister.

“And what happens when Uncle Dwight _Evans_ releases his autobiography at the end of the summer?” Mercedes snapped. “Is that not coming in too? Uncle Dwight is a celebrated member of the House. Doesn’t he serve on the Appropriations committee _and_ on the Board of the Directors for the Black Alliance for Educational Options?”

“He’s the Chairman for the Majority Appropriations committee among others things,” William Jones affirmed, “and that little speech was rather impressive coming from the daughter who refuses to eat _lunch_ with her own father on the Hill.”

“Besides, since when have we referred to Representative Dwight E. Evans as _Uncle Dwight_?” Devon added. “He’s been Uncle Edgar since before you could talk!”

“Can we please get back to the discussion at hand?” Morgan intervened. “Why wasn’t Samuel Evans—”

“Good enough to become valedictorian,” Rashad scoffed. “I suppose it was too hard for him.” Six months ago, Mercedes might have let it slide—no, she would have, in her constant insistence to fit better in with her older brothers of six and three years apart respectively—but Rashad’s quip hit her deep, much deeper than she was normally willingly to concede with.

“He has dyslexia, Rashad. It _is_ harder for him,” Mercedes snapped.

“Relax ‘Cede,” Devon frowned again.

“And since when do you ruffle your feathers over shot towards the Evans’?” Isadora added.

“Well Mercedes did tutor Samuel in high school. She should be allowed to celebrate his accomplishments, not listen to you lot diminish it,” Irene stepped in.

“Well, it’s true that he would have flunked out of high school without you, Merc,” Rashad smirked.

“I’m quite sure that someone who had the time to get his PhD and holds a law degree isn’t stupid,” Morgan argued.

“Morgan baby, he has a PhD in _Writing_ ,” Rashad replied. “And do you where he got his Law degree from? It was Vanderbilt. It’s not _Yale!_ Besides, I never explicitly said that the boy was stupid. _”_

“Spoken like a true politician,” Mercedes mocked.

“Not the point,” Irene said stiffly before her son could retort.

“Then what is exactly?” William Jones asked. “I really don’t understand why we’re talking about this boy and that party like we’re going.”

“Oh but we _are_ going,” Irene announced. The dining table was quickly void of discussions as six mouths dropped in sheer, unadulterated astonishment. As William let out a resounding, “What?” his children chimed in with their own pleas of concern. Rashad inquired if his mother was feeling well, Isadora stood to get her a glass of water and Devon assured his mother that if she didn’t want to go to the hospital or a clinic, he’d be happy to examine her right then and there.

“That is more than enough,” Irene snapped again. “We are going to this luncheon.”

“And why the hell is that?” her husband challenged.

“Because you’re an old man with a bad back,” Irene stated. “I’m sure you’d hate to spend the next few nights sleeping on the floor.”

“Mama Irene,” Morgan began carefully, her voice dancing over the tension in the room, “maybe you can explain to us what exactly spurred on this interest?”

“Well if you must know, Mary Evans and I had a lovely chat at Regina Colson’s event and she decided to invite our entire family.”

“Mary Evans?” Rashad asked. “Is she a _real_ Evans? Perhaps she’s the one who needs to trip to the emergency room.”

“Just because she married into that family that suddenly diminish her validity as an Evans, Rashad? Does that make Morgan or Isadora or myself any less of a Jones?” Irene challenged. “Are you trying to instigate that we as wives are not a part of the families that we support, breed, and nurture?”

“Woman, no,” William sighed. “I just see no reason to bother ourselves with people who don’t want us there. Especially, not after Tuesday.”

“What happens Tuesday?” Mercedes asked.

“Your father here will be hosting a fundraising event for Morgan & Sons,” Irene answered.

“Why is that a concern for the Evans family?” Isadora asked.

“Because the CEO of Morgan & Sons has already expressed his public interest in becoming a significant sponsor for the next Democratic President,” William Jones answered.

“President? You want to _run_ for President?”

“Is that so hard to believe Mercedes?” her father frowned. “Though you like to forget it, I’ve been the Majority Whip Leader for quite some time now.  Would you care for me to run down my other qualifications for the job? Besides, this country has done well in the hands of the left and I plan to see that it continues to do so.”

“Isn’t a bit early for this?” Mercedes pressed. “It’s only 2013. We haven’t even gotten to midterms yet.”

“You can never do too much fundraising,” Rashad shrugged. “Nailing Morgan & Sons will put us in the perfect position once we’ve passed the midterms.”

“So, this has _nothing_ to do with the rumors of Richard Evans possibly eyeing 1600 Pennsylvania Ave too?”

“Do you suddenly think that Dad’s really not the man for the job?” Rashad asked his sister aghast as Isadora looked on with a raised brow.

“That’s not what she said, Rashad,” Irene argued. “And quit looking at her like that, William. Your daughter has got every right to ask you those kinds of questions, because heaven forbid both of you get your nominations. Then we’ll have a real national crisis.”

“Is that what you think?” William Jones replied.

“That’s what I _know._ The media would have a field day with the race, all up our asses about that damn rivalry—which by the way, no one can remember _who_ or better yet _how_ it started! And don’t you dare serve me some crap about the media being in our business before or how it’ll be the same as every other Presidential race, because it’s a load of bull. All this race will do is add fire to a blazing furnace William. No one will end up taking either of you seriously and some damned independent will creep up and take the race. I suppose I should go ahead and see who’s looking like the best third-party option…”

“If you’re so worried about our privacy and the rivalry, then why bother with Mary Evans’ luncheon at all?” William questioned his wife.

“Because I feel like going,” Irene said simply, in a tone that made it clear that this would be the end of the discussion. “You’re going to need a First Lady if you plan to clinch the Democratic nomination. It sure would be a shame if you became the first President in almost 100 years to have a First Lady that wasn’t your wife. I’m quite sure that Mercedes wouldn’t be interested in pulling a Margaret Woodrow Wilson either. But maybe you could ask your mother to step in. How does _that_ sound?”

Mercedes watched as her father resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As his wife wasn’t lying about his back problems, Senator William Jones begrudgingly found his food much more interesting.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Rashad grumbled four days later after he surrendered his keys to the valet and led his wife to where his siblings were waiting for them. Just behind them were the tent grounds of Dumbarton Oaks, where Mary Evans’ event was being held.

“Well I can,” Isadora shrugged as they gathered together. “Your mother threatened my access to her leftovers and after a long day at the hospital Dev loves nothing more than Mama Irene’s food. And I love it because it means that I don’t have to cook!”

“Which means I don’t have to starve,” Dev teased, dodging his wife’s backhand.

“I guess this does give us the perfect opportunity to—”

“Rashad Jones, if you finish that sentence with the words “spy” or “eavesdrop”, I swear on all that is holy…”

“You’ll do what Mercedes?” Rashad challenged his younger sister.

“We’re not _here_ to eavesdrop!”

“While you may think that we’re here to play nice, _I’m_ here because Morgan and I aren’t interested in losing the services of our favorite babysitter,” Rashad argued. “Not to mention, it’s crucial to my job to know how likely the chances are of Richard Evans even _thinking_ about running for President.”

“Boy quit acting as if it’s not a concern for all of us,” Isadora stepped in.

“Well _some_ of us seem too preoccupied with singing show tunes…”

“Mama Irene!” Morgan called out leading her husband away from his siblings.

“Morgan sweetheart,” Irene Jones greeted. “Glad to see that everyone’s accounted for. But Mercedes darling, I thought you said that you were bringing a date?”

“I was,” Mercedes bit out still glaring at her older brother, “but Tana had a last minute family thing.”

“Santana? She was going to be your plus one?” William Jones frowned. “Baby girl don’t you know that—”

“Yes Daddy, I know that Shane Tinsley is in town,” Mercedes cut in. “No, it’s not going to happen.”

“And why is that?”

“This sounds like a conversation best suited for the privacy of our own home, wouldn’t you agree William?” Irene intervened. Her husband grumbled affirmatively before leading his family to the greeting hostess.

“Jones, party of 7,” Irene announced.

The young woman smiled and led them through the arched rosary gates and into the main garden. That’s when Mercedes first saw him.

What most people don’t understand is that it’s _really_ hard to be Sam Evans’ girlfriend in secret. Especially when he parades around his aunt’s event in a pale green well fitted sweater-vest combo that brings out his stunning set of eyes—eyes that have the magical ability of making Mercedes’ panties disappear, a trick that Sam was all too fond of. In fact, that sweater vest was too well fitted, though it was better than the grey smedium shirt that he’d dared to wear for her a few weeks prior. That had come off as soon as they were alone. Damn him and that firm chest, with pectorals perfect for her to leave light marks on, nipples, that Kurt had astutely pointed out were indeed crooked, but just right for eliciting low deep moans when teased—moans that would travel right down her spine and exactly to where she wanted him to be, desperately needed—

“Mercedes?” her mother called out to her in concern. In fact, her entire family was shooting her looks of alarm as they crowded around her table. Mercedes on the other hand was stuck a few feet behind them in the grass, her body unwilling to move. That is until Isadora led her by the elbow to her seat, muttering under her breath in Spanish. William Jones, as customary, pulled out a chair for his wife and offered it to her once the hostess left saying, “Back of the bus, _Rosa_.”

“Excuse you William?”

“Yes, Irene _Rosa_ Jones?”

He wasn’t slick, William Jones, but they were placed at the very back of seated area for the luncheon. Irene glared at her husband until he sat down.

“What drinks can I get for you all?” a waiter inquired politely once everyone was seated. “I have a lovely glass of Chard—”

“Oh no, we’ll all have water,” Mrs. Jones said. The waiter nodded and quickly took his leave.

“Mother, I was quite interested in hearing what they have to offer,” Rashad complained lightly. “If we’re going to be forced to sit through this, _some of us_ are going to need some liquid courage.”

“And _that’s_ why you’re not getting any,” Irene replied.

Mary Evans rose to speak at the microphone on the stage before Rashad could answer, though his wife gave him a warning look. This was not the place to show out, even if Rashad only meant to tease. It was a Jones tradition, teasing each other into submission or irritation, one that went back as far as their involvement in politics. Sometimes Mercedes was quite certain that it was the only way that any of them could cope.

The luncheon for Sam had several guests that Mercedes instantly recognized—William Schuester from Schuester and Sons wasn’t too far from her family’s table. Apparently the firm remained a favorite of the Evans family despite Sam’s public departure a few years prior. The Karofsky family was also in attendance, an interesting choice in Mercedes’ opinion but she supposed that Sam most likely had no control over the specifics of the guest list. Wes Lueng and David Makin Jr., graduates of Dalton Academy, were also in view. Both were fine men, well on their way to their own powerful careers in the right, though that didn’t stop David from raising a glass in Mercedes’ direction with a promising smile.

“Has Makin Jr. lost his _goddamn_ mind leering at you like that?” Devon snapped.

“He’s not leering,” Mercedes replied rolling her eyes at both men. “And besides are you saying that I’m not worth admiring after, even from afar?”

“Surely _no one_ is saying that Ms. Jones.”

The deep Southern drawl from Sam’s voice sent a swift chill straight to her core and Mercedes tried to maintain her poker face as she turned in her chair to take Sam in.

Yep, it was _really fucking hard_ being Sam Evans’ secret girlfriend.

“Samuel,” Irene Jones greeted standing to meet the tall blonde. Sam accepted her greeting with a bright smile and went as far as to kiss the hand that Mercedes’ mother extended as he told her that she looked simply exquisite. That alone caused Rashad to nearly jump out of his chair and for Mercedes to wonder whether Sam had taken a sip of the damn Kool-Aid before sauntering over here.

“Senator Jones, always a pleasure,” Sam greeted offering his hand to the stone faced patriarch. William Jones wouldn’t be able to stop glaring at Sam Evans even if someone had paid him with enough money to cap that national debt.

“Samuel, I’m not sure if you remember but these are my children,” Irene introduced, “Rashad, who works in his father’s office and his wife Morgan. Over here is Devon, who just finished residency at John Hopkins and his fiancée Isadora and I’m sure you remember—”

“Mercedes Jones,” Sam finished taking the youngest Jones in. “What’s it been 10, maybe 15 years?”

“It’s good to see you too, Sam,” Mercedes replied politely. “Congratulations on your impending graduation and the book offer.”

“Why thank you Ms. Jones,” Sam smiled. “May I ask what you’ve been up to lately? Not politics I hope.”

“And why’s that?” Rashad snapped, leaning back in his chair as he started to cross-examine Sam.

“Because your sister is exceptionally beautiful,” Sam said simply. “I can’t imagine all of the swing votes she’d garner with just a simple smile.”

Mercedes, try as she did, couldn’t fight the blush. He was a charming devil, that Sam Evans but she was going to kill him in private.

“I’m a singer,” Mercedes finally spoke up before any of her brothers could retort. Oddly enough, Devon was especially quiet in Sam’s presence though Mercedes didn’t even want to think about that dynamic.

“That’s right! You and Rachel Berry were in Glee club together at McKinley,” Sam recalled.

“Except Mercedes here can blow Rachel Berry out of the water,” Morgan praised.

“Is that so? Well I’d be inclined to agree with you Mrs. Morgan,” Sam began, “but I’m a man who values proof.”

If Mercedes thought Sam Evans had been showing out before, she was sadly mistaken. Now the blonde was offering his hand, a dangerous invitation. Yes, she was definitely going to kill him.

“That would be highly inappropriate,” Mercedes argued, refusing the hand.

“Oh but Ms. Jones, I insist,” Sam replied. “And after all it is _my_ party.”

Sam flashed Mercedes a smile, _the_ smile—the one that not only insured that whatever he wanted would be his for the taking, but also his for the taking with her panties wrapped around her ankles too.

“Go on Cede,” her mother encouraged. After warily observing the hand that was still being offered and her father’s subtle nod, Mercedes slipped her own into Sam’s firm grasp and let him lead her away from her family’s table.

“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed at him once they were out of earshot.

“You know I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Sam replied, not facing her as he led her through the crowd. They were already getting enough attention, as constituents of his father’s stared at Sam in astonishment as he refused to let go of Mercedes’ hand while leading her to the stage.

“Sam Evans, you are _crazy_.”

“Crazy about you,” he replied. “I’ve missed you.”

Somewhere deep in her crania, Mercedes knew that she should turn around and run. This wasn’t 12th century, and they weren’t stuck in some tragic Shakespeare play—but alas they _were_ and as much as she hated it, Mercedes couldn’t deny the fact that there was something about this man that made her love him desperately. In the end, she was just as crazy about him as he was for her.

“I’ve missed you too,” she said, softly squeezing his hand as Sam led her up the steps to the stage.

“Ladies and Gentleman, we have a lovely surprise here,” Sam announced into the microphone as Mercedes hastily spoke with the small band behind him, “Miss Mercedes Jones.”

As Sam made his way off the stage the instrumental intro to Corrine Bailey Rae’s _Breathless_ , a favorite of his, began and he couldn’t help but smile as he watched Mercedes loose herself in the music.

“Sometimes, I think you have a death wish.”

Sam turned to see Kurt and Blaine standing side by side, giving him the same appraisal—Kurt’s patented bitch face, though Sam supposed that the pair was well on their way to sharing it.

“And why is that Kurt? Blaine? By the way, you two are looking more and more like an old married couple,” Sam said. “Perhaps I should start collectively referring to you two as Klaine.”

“That has got to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all day,” Kurt replied rolling his eyes, but not before Sam caught a glimmer of humor in them.

“Just wait, it’s barely noon,” Blaine said. “He’s bound to say something even more absurd. Like maybe tell Senator Jones that he’s madly in love with his beloved daughter.”

“Want to say that any louder Blainers?” Sam dared, “because I’d hate to have to remind you and Kurt that you’re currently in violation of the infamous Anderson rule.”

Both Kurt and Blaine darkened at the mention of it. They were a steady, united couple, it was true, but they weren’t without their fair share of troubles and the Anderson rule was at the source of just about everything Kurt and Blaine argued about. Sam wholeheartedly felt that Kurt wasn’t wrong to think that submitting to set of clauses that included him maintaining a 100 foot distance at all public events was completely outrageous for a supposed “out” couple. The honest truth was that Blaine Anderson wasn’t out, not completely at least. Nearly everyone knew, keeping the son of a former Democratic House Representative around was bound to raise questions, but everyone also knew that the Andersons were devout Methodists and while Blaine hadn’t stepped inside a foyer of a sanctuary, let alone laid his prayers down at some altar for nearly 20 years, his compliance with the Anderson rule made Kurt look like one thing—his bitch. Those had been Kurt’s words, not Sam’s. If Sam remembered correctly, those very words had been screamed at the top of Kurt’s lungs about less than two years ago. Blaine had to sleep on Sam’s couch for two weeks that month.  

“Do you actually have a death wish?” Blaine snapped. “Or do you just enjoying fucking with the people who bother to care about you.”

“Must be the latter,” Sam replied, taking a drink from a nearby waiter.

“Let’s bring this down a few notches, shall we?” Kurt suggested. “No more cheap shots, okay? Because the last time I checked, the unspoken Jones rule was about _1000_ feet, especially after that little stunt you pulled to get Cedes away from her parents. What was that exactly?”

“Excuse me for wanting to talk to my girl—”

“But you see Sam, she isn’t just your girlfriend right now,” Kurt hissed. “She’s also the daughter of one of the most powerful Democratic Senators. And to make it _even_ better, she’s the daughter of the man that your family has hated for going 50, 75 years now?”

Sam frowned as he caught the eyes of his father who had his sole attention on him; his mother had mysteriously disappeared from the table.

“I wish Quinn were here,” Blaine said simply. “She’d knock some sense into you.”

“She’s with _Rachel_ ,” Sam muttered. “Frankenteen is out with mummy in Philadelphia. First time Rachel’s been alone since the diabetes dinner two months ago. Apparently our girls need some quality time.”

“Quinn can’t be with Rachel Berry,” Kurt said slowly, “because Rachel Berry is _here_.”

Indeed, the small petite brunette was being ushered through the tables as Mercedes looped through the final bridge. Leading the Broadway hopeful was Sam’s mother, Martha.

“Great! Now I won’t be able to hear the end of this from Quinn,” Sam grumbled.

“She needs a new girlfriend,” Kurt frowned, watching Rachel as well, “preferably someone who doesn’t already have a boyfriend.”

“Tell me something I don’t know Kurt,” Sam replied.

There was a polite round of applause after Mercedes hit a particular spectacular note—not that Sam was biased. That didn’t keep Richard Evans from looking as stone faced as ever or his wife from going on the warpath.

“What exactly is your mother doing?” Blaine hissed watching the petite blonde matriarch lead Rachel on to the stage.

“Trying to give me an aneurysm,” Sam muttered darkly. His lovely mother Martha was now practically hovering over Mercedes even before she finished her final note.

“That was quite nice, dear,” Mrs. Evans congratulated stiffly as Mercedes stepped back to give her space. “So glad Samuel brought you up, but I would also like to introduce a fabulous songstress, whom I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Rachel Berry.”

“I am so sorry,” Sam apologized as Mercedes made her way off the stage.

“It’s alright,” she shrugged. “Honestly, I’m surprised that she didn’t try to snatch the mic mid-verse. Kurt! I didn’t see you earlier.”

The two old friends embraced warmly. Their friendship was just as strong, and just as long as Blaine and Sam’s—though Sam was quite sure that Mercy never had to worry about Kurt dumping sand in her curls at any given movement. That cheeky bastard.

“You look stunning Mercedes,” Blaine complimented.

“Yes, you do look simply _delicious_ in that dress,” Kurt agreed. “No wonder Sam can barely behave. C’mon let me walk you back to your parents.”

“How have you been?” Mercedes asked once they were out of earshot from the boys.

“You know, I keep trying to tell myself that I’ve been worse. In some respects, it’s true. Business with the store has been great, Dad’s in good health but Cede, I’m tired. I go to every one of these events that Blaine has to show his face at, and I don’t ever complain. I don’t complain when people look at me funny or when they say tasteless things about my father. I keep my peace. But I swear if I have to go another year with this damned rule…some days I don’t even see the point. We both might as well be back in the damn closet!”

Mercedes squeezed his arm affectionately. “At least the Andersons have to respect at some level that you’re still here.”

“Oh no,” Kurt chuckled bitterly. “Levi Anderson loves parading girls around Blaine. It makes me sick.”

“Have you spoken to Blaine lately?”

Kurt stopped just a few tables from her family.

“Mercedes Amber Jones, tell me what happened the last time you told the green eyed devil that you were starting to get frustrated?”

Well…she broke up with him. Then they got back together. And they had sex—lots of sex.

Kurt’s boy was infamous for his intolerance of bullshit, so Mercedes supposed that they probably just skipped to the make-up sex.

“My point exactly,” Kurt muttered leading Mercedes to her family. “Senator Jones, Mrs. Jones!”

“Child, how many times have I told you to call me Mrs. Irene? Mrs. Jones is my mother-in-law,” Irene smiled standing to greet Kurt.

“Kurt my boy,” William Jones greeted. “Tell me how is your father doing?”

“Fabulous,” Kurt answered. “He’s loving retirement.”

“Oh Kurt, please say that again,” Irene half-teased. “I don’t think the dear Senator heard you the first time.”

“Retirement,” Kurt repeated grinning at Mr. Jones. “It truly is a beautiful thing.”

“For some, I suppose,” William Jones replied, “but I plan to accomplish many more things before I join your father. Kurt, why don’t you join us?”

“Oh I’d love to,” Kurt said, “but I think Martha Evans would lose it if I dragged my chair back here. Wouldn’t want to be a cause for disturbing the peace now would we?”

If Martha Evans was truly worried about disturbing the peace, then she shouldn’t have let Sam out of the house. It would have been perfectly acceptable to have a luncheon in Sam’s honor without him. All the rude bastard was going to do was parade around in shirts that were too damn tight for him and flirt mercilessly with Mercedes when he knew that she couldn’t adequately respond. Sam Evans was a glutton for punishment—the kind that most definitely required an empty bed and at least four scarves for bondage.

_No, don’t go there Mercedes. Don’t you dare…._

Fuck, he would look good tied to her bedpost. And maybe an extra scarf to tie around his mouth or his eyes, or both. Both would be good.

“ _Mercedes!_ ”

Her entire family was staring again and Kurt, that cheeky asshole was grinning like a little boy on Christmas.

Damn that Sam Evans.

“Merc are you sure that you’re okay?” Morgan asked kindly as Mercedes sunk into her seat.

“Yes,” she replied weakly, as Kurt took his leave. “I’m just fine.”

Mercedes was a much better sport for the rest of the afternoon, humoring her father and brothers with her input on their discussion of tax reform. Isadora, Morgan and her mother were fully engrossed in sorting out specifics for Dev and Isadora’s wedding in December. Between the two conversations Mercedes Jones was able to finish her meal Sam free. As the luncheon came to a close, it became clear that the general consensus among the Jones children was to politely take their leave. Devon and Rashad could last so long without discussing the elephant, or rather _elephants_ in the room, while Mercedes was sure that if they stayed any longer she’d fall victim to some of her wanton desires, like finding a quiet nook to corner Sam. She’d just realized that the decorative napkins on the tables would make handy substitutes for scarves…

While it was clear that Irene Jones wasn’t exactly pleased, she nonetheless let her children go. William in the end took the brunt of her discontentment—he was forced to stay behind as Irene played nice with Mary Evans and her husband Dwight. Though that probably had more to do with his Rosa comment from earlier…

As Mercedes got situated in her brother Devon’s car, she checked her phone. One new message.

                _Did you know that beds at the Lexington Hotel have sheets imported from Brazil? Silk, too,_ the message read.

                _Really, Blondie? Are we trying to relive old memories?_ Mercedes hastily replied blushing as she recalled the night she lost her virginity.

                _I wouldn’t mind reliving a few old memories at the Lexington tonight. What do you say Gorgeous?_

_Not happening. Too risky._

_Please Gorgeous. We both need this. I’ve already got the room waiting, 427. Meet me there in an hour. I promise to make it worth your while._

As Mercedes bit back a groan of frustration in her brother’s car, Sam had to keep himself from crying out when he received his girlfriend’s affirmative text.

“I hope that’s from Quinn Fabray,” his mother mused from the kitchen sink. The Evans trio was retiring in Mary Evans’ kitchen, with Stevie and Stacie entertaining themselves just a few rooms down as Mary and Dwight rested upstairs.

“She’s in the city mother,” Sam reminded. “Besides, we’re just friends. Quinn made that clear last year. I told you.”

“Yes, but it’s been over a year since that Puckerman boy abandoned her,” Martha Evans snipped. “Surely she’s interested in engaging in a more healthy relationship by now.”

The “abrupt” split between Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray could be called many things, but to those who knew the whole story, abandonment was not one of them. Lauren Zizes was just sick of having to share her man.

“Martha you shouldn’t push Quinn Fabray on the poor boy,” Richard Evans argued from the table as he flipped through the Sunday paper. Sam was just about to agree with his father, when the Senator chose to continue. “She’ll only be a roadblock on his journey to the Hill.”

With his attention absorbed in his paper, Sam was safe to roll his eyes at his oblivious father. “You do realize that I have a full load next semester,” Sam began. “The university is adding me on as a full time professor with 3 classes starting in September. There’ll be no time for the Hill.”

Richard Evans lowered his paper to glower at his only son. The shrill of Martha’s cell phone interrupted the tension between the two men temporarily, but once she took her leave Richard Evans resumed his frown.

“The move to Sarah Lawrence shouldn’t be permanent—”

“It _is_ permanent,” Sam argued. “I like the school. I like the curriculum and I think it’s the perfect environment for me. I’m not going back to Hill, Dad. Push your DC dreams on someone else because you won’t get them from me.”

“You know what your problem is Sam? As always, you’re so focused on the now, on you,” Richard said. “You can never look beyond yourself. It blinds you and makes you less of a man.”

“So I’m less of a man for not wanting to follow in your footsteps,” Sam scoffed.

“You’re less of a man for not considering all of your options. Stifling yourself in the countryside when you could be giving a real service to Washington—”

“You know, I know _you_ don’t think so, but a proper education is the best service that any of us can give to others and I personally plan on making sure that the students at Sarah Lawrence get that.”

“Oh don’t play coy with me boy. I know the importance of education—”

“Then **_lay off_** ,” Sam roared. “I’m not you _Senator_ and I sure as hell don’t plan on following in your footsteps any time soon.”

“Sam!”

Dwight Evans had re-entered the kitchen, his glasses askew and hair shooting up in all directions. The younger brother of Richard Evans took in the hostile nature between the two men and took in a deep breath.

“I think that’s enough for tonight, you two,” Dwight started softly. “Sam, why don’t you go make sure that the twins are ready for bed.”

As Sam brushed past his uncle, his phone buzzed again. It was Mercedes. She’d arrived at the Lexington and was waiting on him. After texting her that he’d be there in 20, Sam put on his best smile and followed the clamor of children playing until he found his cousins and wrestled them upstairs to bed.

By the time Sam actually made it hotel, he knew that Mercedes was beyond restless. She had sent a handful of text messages after his twenty minutes turned into thirty and then forty. Richard Evans, who had apparently not been finished after Dwight dismissed Sam from the kitchen, made sure to get the last words in a final blow out between father and son on the stairs of Dwight’s home. Keeping them at an acceptable decibel was a nearly impossible task for Dwight and the spectacular ended with Sam slamming the door behind him on his way out. When he entered the hotel lobby, Sam was set on heading straight for the elevators but the concierge at the desk called out for him.

“Are you Mr. Sam Evans?”

Sam doubled back to the golden desk and nodded stiffly.

“I wanted to alert you of a slight change in your reservation,” the young man behind the desk stated. “You’ve been moved from room 247 to 215.”

“And all the personal arrangements in 247…”

“Moved into 215 as well, sir,” the young replied handing Sam a swipe card. “There have been a few previous complaints about ventilation in that particular room, so we thought it best to move you to ensure that you have a pleasant stay here at the Lexington.”

By the time Sam made it up to room 215, he’d shaken the spite left from his father’s words and smirked as thoughts of his last private night with Mercedes entertained his mind. The last time they meet had been six weeks ago while she was doing a set in Philadelphia. They didn’t leave the Rittenhouse for days. Taking a deep breath, Sam swiped the key card and pushed the door open.

“Hope you’re ready for—”

“An explanation, I hope.”

Sam froze at the doorway as he took in the sight of his mother, still dressed in her sun dress from the luncheon earlier. She sat on one of the plush leather couches in the suite, one leg crossed over the other with a sickly sweet smirk.

“What are you doing here, mom?” Sam asked softly.

“I think I should be asking you that, especially since you seem to be waiting for someone,” Martha Evans replied. “Surely it has nothing to do with Mercedes Jones. I hear she’s just a few doors down. Would you like me to go get her?”

When her son didn’t respond, Martha Evans stood and continued, “This is what you’re going to do. You will go to room 247 and inform Ms. Jones that whatever it is that you two _think_ you have is over. You may never want to run for a political office Sam, but you have to think beyond yourself here. You have to think of this family, of its reputation. You and Blaine Anderson may share many things in life, but the control over your love life is not one of them. Your father would never allow Mercedes Jones to become another Kurt Hummel. So you will bid your farewells to Ms. Jones and we will return home and pretend that this moment never happened. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”

In room 247, Mercedes Jones was officially done. She wasted every ounce of patience on waiting for Sam to show up. After a whopping sixty minutes of practiced civility, she had gathered her coat and heels and made her way to the door. Just as she swung it open, Mercedes was met with the crestfallen face of Sam. His eyes echoed of a wrenching pain and Mercedes felt helpless as he shuffled into the room.

“Sam…what happened?” she asked wrapping her arms around his torso. Sam’s arms in return squeezed possessively around her waist and he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. They stood in silence in the middle of the suite until Sam found the energy to pull back slightly to look her in the face.

“She knows,” he croaked.

“ _Who_ knows?” Mercedes asked.

“My mother,” Sam answered. “She knows about us.”

Mercedes took a few steps back from Sam as all thought evaded her.

“She had the concierge tell me the wrong room number,” Sam continued. “She was waiting for me. She’s still waiting for me. She wants me to end things now.”

“And what do you want?” Mercedes asked softly, wrapping her arms around herself. No one ever told her how hard it would be as Sam Evans’ secret girlfriend, especially when he was struggling to break up with her. Her body was shaking with so many different emotions: fear, for the next words to come from his mouth, rage for being so damn _stupid_ to fall for it all again and disappointment for even thinking that this time could be different; that their parents for some reason would just lay down arms.

“I want you,” Sam answered stepping forward and pulling her back into his embrace. “I _need_ you. You are the best thing that’s happened to Mercy and I-I can’t go back. I can’t go back to being a lawyer in DC who hates his job, hates his life and is going nowhere. I can’t go back to the life projection that puts me in a Governor’s chair by 35. I have to do what I love and I have to be with who I love. You taught me that.”

“Sam, do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Yes. I want us to leave this hotel and go my car and drive back your parents’ house. Once my mother realizes that I’m not coming back with her, it’ll only be a matter of time before she tells my father about us. I think it’s time we told yours.”

“He’s not ready,” Mercedes argued pitifully.

“They never will be,” Sam replied. “But we are. Mercy please. I don’t want us to turn into a twisted version of Kurt and Blaine. I want to be able to stand at your side, so long as you still want to stand by mine.”

“You know I do,” she said, trying to fight back her own tears and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Sam snaked his arms back around her waist as he nipped lightly at her neck.

“You’re stuck with me Blondie,” she reminded him pulling him back to press her lips against his.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The drive to the Jones’ residence was the longest trip Sam could ever remember taking, though it probably had more to do with his own nerves than distance. He replayed his speech for Senator Jones nearly 50 times in head, all the while ignoring the phone calls and text messages from his mother. The only message he did respond to was the one from Blaine. There was a very real chance that he was going to have to crash at his friend’s apartment later that evening. Mercedes curled herself in the passenger’s seat, searching for sleep as Sam drove and even as he was consumed with worry, he couldn’t help but think that he was quite possibly making the best decision.

Night had fallen by the time Sam and Mercedes pulled up to the Jones mansion. As Mercedes calmly got them through the gates, Sam ushered a quick prayer before parking the car on the curb in front of the large home. They walked up to the front door hand in hand. Sam gave their intertwined hands a quick kiss before Mercedes reached in her purse to grab her keys. It quickly proved to be unnecessary.

The large door swung open to reveal the petite form of Irene Jones—who was _smiling_.

“Well it’s about damn time you came clean to your father,” Irene Jones started. “Come on in! I sure do hope you’ve got some backbone on you Sam Evans, because we’re all in for one hell of a night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: So when I wrote this Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet was honestly the farthest thing from my mind which made me giggle when I read some of your reviews, but I should make something very clear: no one will be dying. This is not Scandal, no one will be getting stabbed by a pair of scissors while another characters hovers over them and tries to pull out the damn scissors like an idiot instead of calling the police—let me stop trying to talk about Quinn…  
> The moral of the story is Scandal is great TV, I love all of you for reading, and you should leave a comment/kudos!  
> Much Love,  
> Santiva Potter


	3. Just Another Boondoogle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boondoggle--an unnecessary or wasteful project, sometimes done merely for appearances. It’s something that Sam, Mercedes and their friends are all too familiar with--especially at their high school class reunion.

Sam Evans had only been seven years old when he first heard the word boondoggle. He’d been standing at his mother’s side at one of his father’s speeches. Sam shifted uncomfortably wearing the argyle sweater that was just a bit too snug.  He was constantly scratching his neck too, thanks to his blond locks that tickled the back of his neck. Sam remembered being puzzled by a word that at first sounded like something more likely to come from his mouth, instead of the silly grown up words that left him dazed and confused.  These words, however, were a favorite of his father. So when Richard Evans continued on without making some sort of joke with the word that made Sam giggle, he turned to his mother and asked what it had meant.

“Just another silly grown up word,” Martha Evans replied, smiling brightly as she ran her soft hands atop his head. “It’s nothing for my big boy to worry about.”

“The _biggest_ of the big boys,” Sam added, which earned him a bright smile and giggle from his mother. Since they were sitting near the front, they had to lightly shush him, but that had been the norm for Sam. His father’s speeches were often a bore for him, so Martha would make a point of entertaining a few short side conversations with her son as her husband spoke. Richard never complained because it was a much better alternative to having Sam fall asleep. Back then, they had truly been a unit: Richard, the proud and passionate politician, Martha, his beautiful wife who was quickly making a name for herself as the Right’s Sweetheart and Sam, their adorable son, the promise of the future.

When his father had finished that particular speech, they had all piled into their car for the afternoon. They had a rather nice minivan; it was ultimately part of the campaign strategy to show how the Evans family was really one of “us” as Sam had never been in a minivan before. Once settled inside, Sam immediately tried to bargain for his favorite treat, rocky road ice cream.

“Not today son,” his father apologized from the front seat as his wife applied another coat of lipstick from the passenger’s seat. “We’ve still got to make it to Senator Wilson’s before dinner.”

“Now Richard, our big boy Sam—”                                                         

“The _biggest_ of the big boys,” Sam chimed in.

“Yes, Samuel, the biggest of the big ways was especially good today,” Martha said. “He even learned a new word today, isn’t that right Sam?”

“Yep! Boondoggle!”

Richard chuckled. “And do you know what—”

“Richard, this is not the time for a vocabulary lesson,” Martha added. “Don’t you like having a wife and son to follow you to these events?” She shot him a teasing smile, but Richard knew that his wife was serious.

“Alright, ice-cream first, politics later,” Richard ceded as Sam fist pumped the air.

Martha and Richard laughed out loud at their son’s enthusiasm but Sam hadn’t cared—rocky road was just a few minutes away and everyone in his family knew of his love for rocky road.

At least some things over the years had never changed, but Sam Evans would be quick to admit that he was radically different from the young boy would be bribed with ice-cream and Saturday morning trips to the local comic book store. He no longer hung on his parent’s every word. As the years had passed, Sam’s unrest morphed into a _stagnant_ desire for a life that would give him something else, anything else, which ultimately led Sam to where he was today: in a sleek Mercedes R230 SL with Quinn Fabray at his side.

Quinn was the reason Sam had gone back to that memory in the first place. It had been years since he thought of that afternoon, but its sudden return had Sam checking just to make sure there was no carbon copy of himself in the backseat begging for some rocky road.

“You okay?” Quinn asked from the passenger’s seat as she applied another coat of lipstick.

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “Just thinking.”

“About the Jones family?” Quinn asked putting her makeup away.

While Sam hadn’t been thinking of his girlfriend’s family, they were constantly in the back of his mind. It was rather difficult to completely shake the intense shame from being thrown out in under 5 minutes. He hadn’t even gotten in a word to William Jones before he yanked the front door open and roared for him to get out. At least Rashad had been kind enough to share a few choice words with him first—well, the words were aimed at his sister.

“Have you lost your damn mind?” he’d snapped upon entering the living room where Sam, Mercedes, Devon, Mrs. Jones and Devon’s wife, Isadora were gathered. “Do we need to have you committed because I know that you did not just bring a fucking Evans home?”

The whole situation still made Sam’s head hurt. Perhaps he and Mercedes should have thought twice in the strategic sense—breaking the news while her brothers were still home wasn’t exactly the best choice. They seemed to escalate the drama before the real show even began, which Sam had been force to miss out. They could have called ahead, but as Sam flashed back to the blazingly harsh glare that made Sam physically recoil, courtesy of William Jones III, he knew that such attempts would have ultimately been futile. In the end there was one simple truth: William Jones did not want him anywhere near his daughter.

“Honestly, I just don’t see why you didn’t follow your mother out of the hotel that night,” Quinn said as she rummaged through her purse.

“I’m sick of hiding,” Sam snapped. “It’s exhausting keeping up with all these damn lies. You of all people should understand that.”

Quinn shot him a warning look. “That’s my point, Sam. I know all about hiding and I know that for people like us, it often has more benefits than coming clean. For instance look at you and Mercedes: yes the two of have now moved in together but that’s because you both can’t go back to your respective homes and neither of your families are talking to you. You both had lives on the Hill, good ones, even if you didn’t want to take them.”

“You know it’s that kind of thinking that leads to all these damn scandals on the Hill.”

“It also led to 43 Presidents, over a thousand Senators and countless more House Representatives,” Quinn added. “Besides, you’re not exactly out of the closet. We’re not driving down the yellow brick road here, we’re headed to our class reunion, where _I’m_ you’re date.”

That had been purely Mercedes’ doing. The ill aftermath of coming clean to the Jones, which was surprisingly more dramatic than officially telling his parents, had quickly taken its toll on her. She would grace him with a smile or her bubbly laughter nowhere near as often as before, and when she wasn’t working on her demos, Mercedes silently curled up on his couch. She had gone to lunch with her mother a few weeks ago, which Sam had hoped would help—Irene Jones seemed to be the only one who wasn’t completely against them. In some ways the afternoon out had done the trick, Mercedes had sung around Sam’s apartment absentmindedly for the first time in weeks but when a call from her brother came in the next day…

Sam groaned in frustration as he took his exit off of the highway and onto the drag that would lead them to the Jackson estate, where the McKinley class of 1998 would be holding its reunion. Their class reunion was one of the last things that Sam wanted to deal with, but it was a necessary venture if only for the sake of damage control. Ultimately, that was why he was here with Quinn. Things were already bad enough between their respective immediate families, and adding in the drama and pressure of their former classmates, who would no doubt run back to their parents and create even more trouble politically for them, seemed unnecessary.

“I really do hate these things,” Quinn sighed as the road began to thin. Sam wouldn’t doubt that most of his graduating class hated these things, but no one was particularly fond of not showing face at an event that Becky Jackson was going to be at.

“Just think in a few hours,” Sam sighed pulling onto the extravagant driveway, “You’ll be with Rachel, I’ll be back at the hotel with Mercedes and everything will be back to normal.”

“Normal? Hmm, that’s an interesting way to describe it,” Quinn mused lightly as the valet opened the car door for her.

The class of 1998 was celebrating its 13th anniversary—13 because the 10 year had been a disaster thanks to the nasty split between Rick “the Stick” Nelson and Missy Gunderson, which played out before everyone. While it had been slightly entertaining the first hour or so, the entire event hadn’t been enjoyed by anyone. Not even Becky Jackson, whose life work was made by the drama of D.C. socialites. That wasn’t her official calling, Becky worked as a journalist for the Washington Post by day, but her blog that chronicled all of the scandals and sightings of D.C.’s finest was more than just a hobby, especially since she started it back in high school. Damn the first individual who had thought of her as weak because of her disability. During Sam’s freshman year of high school everyone had seen her as sweet little Becky, who probably couldn’t understand much and was safe to verbally kick around, but by junior year that girl had turned into a scandal whisperer. She knew just about everything about everyone, though Sam and Mercedes had been successful about keeping their relationship off of her radar and after all this time, neither was quite ready to have Ms. Jackson’s full attention.

Sam walked in with Quinn on his arm and a smile that he kept handy for painful public political parties. He recognized several of his former classmates, even nodded politely to those whom he’d played baseball with. He was slightly disappointed not to see former classmate and teammate, Noah Puckerman. The two of them had been rather close, especially during the season and Sam knew for a fact that Puckerman had ended up with his wife, Lauren in the suburbs of Baltimore, but apparently he was set on avoiding all of the _cops’_ drama. It was shame as Sam had once heard that Becky Jackson had a soft spot for him.

“Is that Blaine?” Quinn asked.

Not too far from them, stood Blaine Anderson, dapper as ever, at the side of Kurt Hummel. In some respects, Sam truly envied them: Blaine, a graduate of Dalton Academy’s class of 99, would never be questioned for showing up on the arm of Kurt—well, at least not here; but at least their parents accepted their relationship to a certain degree. Though Sam wasn’t completely sure how he’d feel about the Anderson rule applying to him and Mercedes.

“Kurt, Blaine,” Quinn greeted, giving each man a kiss.

“Quinn you look lovely as ever,” Kurt replied.

“How’s it going lover boy?” Blaine asked Sam.

“Could be worse, I suppose,” Sam shrugged. “Are you at our table?”

“If it’s 15, then yes,” Kurt replied as Sam nodded. “Well then, now that we’re here do try to look a bit more enthused Sam. Oh and before I forget…”

Kurt handed each of them a small white invitation. Inside was the embroidered wedding announcement for Tina Cohen-Chang and Mike Chang.

“I thought you just designed dresses,” Sam asked as they walked to their table. “Since when I have you jumped ship to full on wedding planner?”

“I am designing dresses, _the_ dress in this case. I just finished Tina’s wedding gown and I must say it is fabulous,” Kurt beamed.

“So I’m going to a wedding to see a dress?” Sam teased.

“Nope,” Blaine answered. “You’re going because I have to go, your girlfriend has to go _and_ because you have to see this dress _._ ”

Quinn chuckled softly as Sam offered her a chair.

“Do remember that we can’t be anti-social here, Sam,” Quinn said once he sat down.

“What are you talking about? We’re social.  Blaine and Kurt are right there.”

“A Dalton grad and a Democrat,” Quinn deadpanned. “You _know_ what I mean.”

“Fine,” Sam ceded, well aware of the fact that half of Becky’s stories started as rumor tips from other classmates. “We’ll start with Finn Hudson.”

If Sam had any doubts about Quinn Fabray’s love for the former McKinley starter, they were instantly cleared by her cold glare.

“Relax Quinn, he’s just upset because he hasn’t seen his Mercy yet,” Blaine teased, making sure to keep his voice low. Sam simply shrugged unapologetically.

“Well that shouldn’t be a problem anymore,” Kurt mused eyeing the tented entrance.

“Well fuck me,” Blaine said, watching as Mercedes stepped under the tents with Santana Lopez in tow. He wasn’t the only one having an issue either; nearly half of the men gathered were drinking in the sight of Mercedes in her bright blue cocktail dress that outlined her hourglass frame. Sam had never believed in “fuck-me-pumps” until he’d seen his girl in strapped black Jimmy Choo heels that she now showed off for everyone instead of in the privacy of his bedroom…with nothing else on. Sam bit back a groan as he tried to push that particular memory out of the forefront of his mind, the way her hips had swung as she crawled onto the bed. The girls had been hard as her breast dragged across his sensitive skin, begging to be played with but it was her lips and tongue that truly stole the show. The way she had tortured him that night… _fuck_ , now he needed someone to fuck him.

“Pick up your jaws boys,” Quinn asked as she sipped on her water.

“Now Ms. Fabray, my love for vaginas is about as great as your love for dicks,” Blaine said, “but even I can admit that I wouldn’t mind taking Ms. Jones for a spin.”

“Hey!”

“Oh relax Sam,” Quinn smirked. “She’s crazy about you, but if she were up for grabs you’d have much more than Blaine to worry about.” Quinn flashed him a seductive grin that made Sam quite happy that his girlfriend was not bisexual.

“While Blaine is absolutely right, can we please talk about how wrong of it was of Sam to insist that ‘Cede couldn’t bring Joe as her date,” Kurt hissed.

“She doesn’t need him! Besides he was super friendly with her,” Sam argued.

“He’s her _cousin_ Sam!”

“And he’s a super friendly-ass cousin Kurt,” Sam replied. “Incest is real and it fucks people up. Just look at Rick!”

Blaine choked on his drink as he failed to hold back his laughter.

“Besides, Quinn’s into girls,” Sam reasoned, dropping his voice low. “I told Mercy that I was fine with her bringing one of her gay male friends.”

“And you’re okay with Santana because?” Blaine chuckled.

“Santana has Brittany. I have nothing to worry about,” Sam reasoned.

“Santana was a whore in high school,” Quinn reminded lightly. “You have _everything_ to worry about and for your sake I hope she is fucking Mercedes behind your back.”

“Rude,” Sam said fighting a smile. “Besides how would you know? I thought you said you two never hooked up.”

Quinn shot Sam a devilish smile. “I bet you’d like to know…”

On the other side of the tented area, Mercedes Jones was enjoying the attention and she secretly hoped that Sam was at least a little green with envy. She would have been a bit angrier about Joe, who’d flown in for moral support, if she hadn’t already known that Santana was going stag for the luncheon. They had tag teamed for years now, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t have a little fun with it. She looked good enough to devour, and she damn well knew it.

“I feel like we just stepped into a poacher’s territory,” Santana grinned. “And don’t you dare turn around. If one of these boys gets a good look at how that ass bounces in that dress…”

“Tana stop!” Mercedes laughed.

“Oh don’t get modest now,” Santana replied. “You asked for it!”

“Ladies,” a deep male voice greeted from behind.

Mercedes bit back a groan, though Santana, who had never been one for manners, rolled her eyes and bluntly asked Shane Tinsley, “What the hell do you want?”

He ignored her, as he’d done for most of their senior year in high school. Never in a million years would Shane Tinsley have bet that the friendship between two women who spent the majority of their childhood with a thick animosity for the other would have lasted this long. He’d also never thought that Mercedes wouldn’t have been his wife or at least fiancée by now.

“Can’t an old friend say hello?” Shane asked.

“Hi Shane, nice to see you,” Mercedes replied kindly trying to lead Santana around her ex.

“Hold up, it’s been years since we’ve caught up,” Shane continued. “You look good, ‘Cede. What table are you at?”

“I don’t know, Santana?”

“Depends,” her Latina friend replied. “What table are _you_ at Shane?”

“25,” the ex-linebacker answered.

“Yep, definitely not that one,” Santana smiled. “Aretha let’s bounce.”

“Oh really? That’s how it is now?” Shane frowned. “Mercedes, I just want a quick word.”

“Then talk,” Mercedes said.

“Alone,” Shane bargained.

“You can forget it, Mr. T. By the way you should give that poor man his jacket back,” Santana snapped.

“San, I’ll be fine. Just go,” Mercedes told her friend.

When she was out of earshot, Shane’s smile dropped. “Mercedes Jones what are you doing?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“You know good and well what I’m talking about. Did you really think that your father wouldn’t tell my dad? They’re best friends, their fathers were best friends. That’s how it’s been for years. It’s the way it should be.”

“Shane,” Mercedes warned.

“No you listen to me ‘Cede. I get that you and Sam,” he dropped his voice out of courtesy as a few of their classmates passed by, “had this thing in high school and I screwed up and lost you in the end, but where do you honestly see this thing going? You really want to become another Republican’s bitch like your boy Kurt?”

“I don’t have to listen to this!”

“Yes you do,” Shane argued blocking her path. “You’re angry because you know it’s true. You can’t have what you’re looking for with him, not unless you’re willing to lose your family. And I know you ‘Cede; family means everything to you.”

“Shane Tinsley, you do NOT know me,” Mercedes spat back, “because you’d know that I’d do anything for those who I loved, including _him_. Now drop this chivalrous act, we both know why you’re really here.”

“To protect you from Sam Evans, thus giving you the future that you deserve? Can’t you see that you’re a queen to me Mercedes? You don’t deserve to be kept as a secret; you should be given the world—”

“I don’t need the world,” Mercedes cut in. “Just Sam. And anyone who can’t comprehend that is no _old friend_ of mine.”

“I will not stand by and let you waste—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Blaine Anderson had arrived and his tone was about as chilling as the glare he sent Shane’s way. They had been in their own little world, Shane and Mercedes, completely unaware of the fact that their heated discussion was starting to gather an audience.

“I don’t think this is any of your business,” Shane replied tightly. “Why don’t you cross the aisle back to your side, Anderson?”

“Oh I think I’m just fine,” Blaine smiled darkly. “I suppose this not being any being any of my business also applies to that community center proposal that landed on my desk earlier this week. I hear it is being run by your father who is in desperate need of support from his Ohio constituents. Guess all the pork stuffed in his legislative bills for big, evil DC firms wasn’t making anyone too happy back home. I also hear that he’s a bit short on money too, but I suppose that’s not my business either. In fact normally anything with the last name Tinsley attached finds its way to the trash. Old habits die hard I suppose, but Kurt insisted that this was something worth my time. However, if you’d prefer for me to reconsider that decision, please do continue.”

If the former Ohio State football lineman could have tackled Blaine Anderson to the ground, Mercedes was sure that he would have. Nonetheless, the Anderson Empire had a way of tackling down all of the Goliaths in D.C. with just a single sling shot.

 “I’ll see you around Mercedes,” Shane grunted before taking his leave. Blaine didn’t stay long either, blending back into the crowd leaving Mercedes to scan the area for Santana. She was stuck playing nice with Becky Jackson. By the time she and Santana reached their seats, Mercedes saw that she had several messages from Sam, each pleading to talk with her in a private nook in the house. She should have known that Sam sent Blaine over there. Taking a deep breath, Mercedes sent him a quick refusal with a promise to talk later. Mercedes then reached for her glass and downed her drink in hopes that she could somehow regain the courage she had mustered when she first walked in.

Sam wasn’t happy about staying put but he knew that being caught with Mercedes in the house would do nothing to help her mood. So he stayed and even played nice with a few of his former classmates seated at tables near him until Finn Hudson rose to speak.

“Someone, kill me now,” Kurt grumbled as Finn thanked Becky for hosting the event on behalf of the entire class. His speech dragged on, including some highlights of their time at McKinley and a few jabs at each side and it ended, as with every Finn Hudson classic, with something about himself. “I’m happy to announce that in just a few months we’ll have something else to celebrate: the joining of the Hudson and Berry family.”

Applause erupted around Sam’s table as he and Quinn choked on their drinks. Kurt dropped the glass he had been holding, along with the silverware he’d been using to pick at his food while Finn droned on. Blaine was the only one to keep face, though he looked about as pleased as his tablemates. Rachel Berry, who sat at Finn’s side smiled pleasantly as congratulations were offered to her, but not once did her eyes stray to the blonde at Sam’s side.

“Quinn?” Sam asked hesitantly.

Quinn Fabray didn’t say anything, not as water from her drink gathered unattractively on her blouse or as more water spilled over her mascara lined eye. She did catch the stray away tear and quickly stood afterwards to find a bathroom. Sam stood to follow but Quinn whipped around and in a heavy voice hissed, “Don’t you dare, Sam Evans.”

Though she couldn’t have left the table any faster, Santana Lopez was already waiting for Quinn in the guest bathroom.

“Get out,” Quinn snapped making her way to the sink.

“You knew this was going to happen,” Santana sighed, letting her pass.

“I said get out, Santana,” Quinn repeated. When she realized that the brunette wasn’t going to leave she continued. “What was I supposed to do, wait around for you to dump Brittany?”

“Oh please Quinn, you’ve been doing this thing with Rachel for _years_ ,” Santana replied. “Don’t try to blame this one of me. You knew that this day was coming. She’s not ready and frankly, I don’t think she’ll ever be ready.”

“And what would you know?”

“Well for starters, I’m not lying to my parents about who I am!” Santana snapped.

“Well we all can’t have it as good as you,” Quinn spat back, wiping away her mascara to apply a new coat. She brought the long brush up to her left eye and paused for slamming her hands against the cool brass of the sink.

“Que...”

“Just get out Santana. I want to be alone.”

Her voice was cracking and Santana could see the tears spilling down her rose cheeks.

“Is it too much to ask for?” Quinn choked, letting her sobs rack her body. “Wanting something like you and Brittany? Hell, I’ll even take something as dysfunctional as Sam and Mercedes or Kurt and Blaine. I don’t care! I just want her. I need her.”

“No you don’t Quinn,” Santana comforted softly, rubbing the blonde’s back. “You don’t need her. You just have to love yourself.”

“Oh why thank you Gandhi,” Quinn snapped, shrugging Santana off her. “We’ll just go the noble route, while Finn Hudson gets to fuck her whenever he damn well pleases.”

“Fine Quinn, do what you want, but I will say this: if you pursue this Rachel Berry thing after the wedding you will be turning into those women that we all used to hate,” Santana warned, “the women who would sneak around our houses and screw with our fathers and destroy marriages, the good, the bad and the ugly. I want you to think long and hard about what you’re getting from Rachel Berry before you put yourself down that path.”

By the time Quinn Fabray made it out of the bathroom, she had her mind made up. While she knew Santana meant good and well by her advice, she was not going down without a fight, and Samuel seemed to be well on his way to helping her. He was begrudgingly entertaining Finn at their table, though the McKinley grad seemed not to either notice the resentment or simply not care. When she reached the boys, Quinn slid right into Sam’s lap and shot Finn Hudson a winning smile.

“Finn congratulations,” she said sweetly.

“Thanks Quinn,” Finn replied. “Glad there’s no hard feelings between us.”

“Hard feelings?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, you know since we used to have a thing in high school,” Finn explained.

Quinn smiled brightly again as Kurt rolled his eyes behind Finn.

“Oh everything is just fine between us Finn,” Quinn assured. “Besides I’m very happy with Sammy here, but where’s Rachel? I want to congratulate the future bride in person.”

Finn turned to wave down his fiancée down. Rachel Barbara Berry approached with her own wary smile as Quinn continued to grin flirtatiously.

“Rachel congratulations,” Quinn cooed standing up to bring the flustered brunette in a tight hug. Perhaps too tight if Finn had bothered to notice, but Quinn was left to snake her hands down Rachel’s slim back twice before pulling away.

“I just love this dress on you,” Quinn continued, running her hands down Rachel’s sides to admire the fabric _._

“Thank you Quinn,” Rachel replied weakly. “You look quite nice yourself.”

“You’re so sweet,” Quinn smiled. “You know, I was thinking that the four of us should go out to celebrate your engagement! We could do dinner and a movie at the old theater downtown.  I know this lovely restaurant that’s nearby.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Finn agreed. “I’m free tomorrow; maybe we could do a brunch type thing?”

“Perfect! Sammy do you think you can clear your schedule?” Quinn asked sweetly.

Sam was trying to reserve as much private time as possible for him and Mercedes.  A dinner and a movie with Finn Hudson did not sound like an enjoyable alternative, but Sam was well aware of how fast Quinn’s sugary sweet demeanor could turn sour.

“I think I can make that work,” Sam said.

“You know, I’m not sure that we can do tomorrow,” Rachel interrupted, finding her voice. “I have a thing to do with my Dads.”

“Oh c’mon babe, this’ll be fun,” Finn complained.

“Or just bring them with you,” Quinn suggested. “I hear your fathers are a hoot. I’d love to officially meet them. Besides if we do a late enough brunch the perhaps before or after that, you and I can do a little girl time together--do a little shopping. I’m sure we can find something that the boys would appreciate.” Quinn winked at Finn and reached out to grab Rachel’s hand. She flinched slightly at first touch, but soon relaxed into lacing her fingers with Quinn’s. Sam couldn’t help but grin mischievously. Rachel Berry was such a goner.

“I suppose we can work that out,” Rachel agreed softly.

“Great!” Finn beamed. “We can break the news to your dads’ at dinner tonight and we can meet you two a block from the theater at say 10:45?”

“Sounds perfect, and Rachel and I can have our girl time after the movie,” Quinn said. She pulled Rachel Berry closer to her and laid a soft kiss on her right cheek before whispering seductively in her ear, “I’ll see you later, Rachel.”

Rachel snatched her hand from Quinn’s grasp and nodded politely at the rest of them before leading her fiancé away.

“Well,” Kurt began, setting his glass on the table, “apparently the devil _does_ wear Prada.”

“Why yes Kurt,” Quinn replied, taking her own seat again. “She does.”

Once Sam was able to lead the devil back to his rental car and drop her safely at her parent’s estate, Sam took the long drive out of the metro area to a Marriott in Bethesda, Maryland, where he was staying with Mercedes to keep out of sight. She was waiting for him, standing against the sliding glass doors that overlooked the hotel property. She’d changed from her dress into a pair of loose sweats and a tank top. Her hair was down her back in thick waves, but that was the only other relaxed thing about Mercedes.

“Please don’t say it,” Sam begged closing the door.

“Don’t say what?” Mercedes sighed. “That this still isn’t…I’m willing to fight for us, Sam that’s not the problem. I’m just tired and this weekend was supposed to be for us to celebrate.”

“Our class reunion?” Sam asked.

“No,” Mercedes sighed. “I got a record deal with Sony.”

“What?” Sam yelped.

“Yeah. There was a Sony executive at my gig in Queens last month,” Mercedes explained. “I didn’t say anything because I’ve had my hopes up before, just to have them torn down so—”

“But this is good? This seems legit, right? What did your manager say?” Sam pressed, crossing the foyer to his girlfriend.

Mercedes smiled as he opened his arms to her. She made herself comfortable in his embrace-- how could she not? He felt so much like home to her, a different home, but perhaps a better one.

“Marge is on board,” she finally answered, “but I have to warn you; the deal is in Los Angeles.”

“We’ll make it work,” Sam promised. “I can fly over for the holidays and the university’s spring break. Plus, I’ll be free for summer. I’m not losing you again Mercy.”

Mercedes smiled into his chest until Sam asked her about Shane.

“Don’t worry about him,” she replied. “There’s nothing going on with Shane and me.”

“I know that,” Sam replied. “Honestly, that’s the least of my concerns. I just don’t want him tearing down your spirit either.”

“He can’t,” Mercedes smiled. “I already have the greatest joy.”

Sam dipped down to nip lightly at her lips. Mercedes groaned softly when he pulled back from her.

“I love you Mercedes Jones,” Sam told her grinning as his hands began to roam and grope her ample form, “but I did _not_ love that little dress you had on earlier.”

“Oh really?” Mercedes teased running her fingers through his hair. “A lot of your friends sure did.”

“I know,” Sam said, his voice dropping as he placed kisses down her neck, “but I think it would look much better on the bedroom floor.”

“Who said anything about the bedroom?” Mercedes asked in a breathless voice as Sam’s tongue tasted and teased her skin. He chuckled in return, his hands sliding down to the waist of her sweatpants. He took his time pushing the offending material down her curves until Mercedes stood before him slightly shaking in anticipation in her lace panties.

“What do you plan to do to me, Mr. Evans?” she asked.

“Well Ms. Jones, though we had that scrumptious meal earlier, I must admit I am still quite _hungry_ ,” Sam growled.

Mercedes groaned as Sam traced her slit through her damp underwear, making sure to pay special attention to her clitoris and drag his middle finger in between the folds through the panties before tracing the pattern over again. Mercedes had to cling to his shoulders by the time Sam finally pushed the wet material aside and inserted one long, rugged finger inside of her.

“Fuck me Sam,” Mercedes called out hotly as Sam dragged his finger in and out of her.

Sam shot her a wicked grin as one hand dipped down to secure her ass and the other wrapped one of her legs around his waist. He rolled his hips against hers, chuckling when she moaned again in response. Mercedes allowed herself to be led to the couch where Sam sat her down, removed her panties and spread her wide.

“Sammy please!” Mercedes begged becoming impatient with his teasing caresses at the juncture of her thighs and the way Sam would blow lightly at her opening.

“Fuck you, right?” Sam clarified as his girl closed her eyes and nodded. Sam loved the way that she bit her lip when she was aroused or yanked tightly his hair. He could already see her nipples budding through her thin tank. It would only be a matter of time until his name was echoing off the hotel walls.

“I suppose that you’re in luck then, Ms. Jones, because that is exactly the plan,” Sam grinned before letting his tongue sink between her folds to tease and fuck her as Mercedes laid back in complete bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know some of you were hoping that we'd pick up right were 2 left off, but I promise Sam vs. William Jones is coming. And for those of you who live off angst don't worry, it's coming back. I figured that it would be nice to let them have their moment before I rained on their parade. ;) And for those of you who waited patiently for this update, be comforted in the fact that I'm nearly done writing the next update, my lovely beta Jill does still have to read it, but this should get updated again in the near future. Here's a random fic rec for the day: If you like Twilight, love Twilight, hate Twilight, or only pop in their fanfiction page when you're really really horny (because let's face it, most of the half decent written things in that archive is smut) then you should read The Cullen Campaign by belladonna1472 on fanfiction.net (not sure if it's here too). Let me put it this way: I am not here for Twilight fanfiction. At all. But if this author decides that (s)he wants to do a sequel, I will be there in a heart beat, and I have it on good authority that ChoirFreak8718 would be there with me. So basicially, you should read this while your waiting for the next update. Something else you should do while waiting is leave a review :)


	4. The Woman in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the second day of the reunion weekend, Sam, Mercedes and their closest friends are reminded that the choice between family and soul mate isn't always as easy as it seems…

When Sam Evans woke up, he found Mercedes sitting up beside him in the plush hotel bed writing absentmindedly in her battered song book.

"You should get a new one," Sam grumbled into the sheets, referring to the spiral bound book that she'd been carrying around since high school. She actually owned several others of the same style, but Sam often found her reverting back to the old one, writing along the edges or wherever else she could find space.

"Don't need to," she replied stretching. "Every time you get a chance you keep buying me new song books."

"Well that's because you take conserving paper to a whole different level," Sam said, yawning loudly. His morning grogginess made him too slow to avoid the pillow assault that came his way.

"That's enough out of you Blondie," Mercedes said. "You really need to get up anyway. We've got too much to do today. Besides, I think Kurt wants to try to do something tonight, just the four of us. That is if your boy Blaine can clear his schedule."

"I'll go put my foot up his ass," Sam promised, his voice still thick with sleep, " _later_."

"Sam, come on. Get up!"

"Hell to the no," Sam groaned as he rolled onto his side. "I'm not moving until I get at least 15 minutes of some Mercy time."

"You mean sex?" Mercedes teased back as Sam wrapped one arm around her waist.

Sam grinned wolfishly as he pulled her down into a lying position right in front of him. He cupped her cheek softly with his right hand and said, "Mercy time as in how are feeling today? Would you like a morning back rub? I couldn't be prouder of you with this L.A. deal. How would you like to celebrate? And by celebrate I mean, where would you like me to take you? Or, we can stay in and I'll cook you a classic Southern meal since we both know what happens when you try to tinker with an appliance that isn't a microwave!"

Mercedes threw another pillow at his head as Sam chuckled.

"But if none of that sounds appealing, then we can always have dinner of a different sort…" Sam let his words drop off so that he could take the time to let his eyes generously roam her form.

"I thought Mercy time didn't mean sex, Sammy?"

"Well," Sam began rolling them over so that he hovered over her, "it doesn't _have_ to mean sex, but since you brought it up first…and I do know just the thing to get us both in the mood."

Sam sat up, his hips hovering just over hers as he loudly croaked, " _She fills me up! She gives good love!"_

"Boy, stop! Please!" Mercedes laughed as Sam continued to sing—more like butcher—the Whitney Houston classic.

" _And she's all the woman that I'll ever need!"_

Sam could actually sing quite well. There had been a number of times in the past that Sam had broken out the old guitar his grandfather had given him and sang Mercedes into sweet submission. For Mercedes Jones, there was nothing sexier than watching her man sing—even now.

"You know most women complain day in and day out about not getting enough romance in their relationship," Sam sassed temporarily abandoning the number, "and here I am serenading you with your favorite artist and you're laughing at me!"

"Sammy you know I love you," Mercedes giggled, "but I also know you know better!"

"Excuse you, Mercy Evans—"

" _Evans_?" Mercedes asked. She chuckled sadly before continuing, "Boy you know we've got a long way to go before that happens. Your par—"

"I'm going to make you mine, Mercy," Sam vowed. "It'll be you and me, plus a house full of kids who will all learn, just like their gorgeous mother, that music of Whitney Houston is my coveted territory!"

Sam egged on Mercedes' laughter by breaking out into the famed chorus of _I Will Always Love You_. Sam was just getting started on a series of melismas that were reaching the stratosphere when Mercedes flipped them over and silenced him with a deep kiss. Their neighbors would thank her later, she was sure.

"That future sounds perfect Sammy," Mercedes told him softly, "and that song was very romantic but if you ever try to serenade me with Ms. Houston again you will be jacking yourself off for the rest of your days."

Sam gave her a precocious pout and accepted her soft kiss. As Mercedes made herself comfortable in his arms, Sam asked, "How much more Mercy time do we have left?"

"About 10 minutes," she replied, checking the clock.

"I don't think you should go," Sam sighed as he tasted his girlfriend's skin. Mercedes sighed as he teased her and she struggled to find a good reason to disagree with him.

"I need to go to Burt Hummel's breakfast and you have that thing with Quinn in a few hours."

"Fuck it," Sam replied kneading her breasts.

"It or me?" she asked coyly. Sam chuckled in response as she leaned forward to meet his lips. They nipped at each other lightly for a few moments before Sam's arousal became too much and he used his body weight to roll them over. Mercedes leaned back against the pillows as she watched Sam roll on a condom. They could afford a few more moments in bed, just enough time for one more round. When he leaned back down to kiss her, Mercedes surprised Sam, flipping them back over.

"Change of plans Mr. Evans," she told him stroking his cock slowly as he shuddered.

"Oh God yes," Sam groaned. "Fuck me."

Mercedes lined him with her entrance and pushed down slowly. Sam groaned and gripped her waist as her walls fluttered and squeezed against him, welcoming him back. He couldn't even bear to watch himself disappear inside of her, the sight alone would drive him to release. When Mercedes was balls deep she ran her hands over her own body, relishing in the feel of the perfect stretch. Sam's hands joined hers when she began to tease her nipples, moaning with her as she did so. Sam growled lowly in frustration wanting her to drop the games.

"Shhh," Mercedes whispered, leaning forward to nip at his bottom lip. "I'm on top Mr. Evans so you have to play by my rules."

She raised her hips until only the head was still sheathed and asked, "Do you like it Sammy?"

"Yes," Sam groaned.

"I can't hear you." She grabbed Sam's wrist under her own grasp and pinned them to the bed.

"I said _yes_!"

"Well then Mr. Evans, you should beg for it," Mercedes told him, giggling as he thrashed against her grip. In all actuality, it would have taken nothing for Sam to break her hold, but she knew that he was enjoying the show far too much for that. Mercedes Jones may not have Sam wrapped around her finger for every waking moment, but his dick sure as hell was.

"Fuck me!" Sam shouted as Mercedes finally dropped her hips and rode him to release.

Mercedes was still grinning a few hours later as she stood next to Kurt Hummel, waiting to get past the main lobby of the auditorium that would be hosting the celebration of Burt Hummel's service to the Democratic Party.

"Do I want to know what's put that silly grin on your face?" Kurt teased. "Never mind, I don't want you to spoil my innocence."

"Fool please! I know you are far from innocent Mr. Blaine-likes-it-when-I—"

Kurt cut her off by quickly covering her mouth with his hand.

"Where's Mr. Modesty now?" Mercedes teased. "Thought I forgot about that, didn't you?"

"I thought we agreed to never speak of that again!"

They dropped the conversations as Kurt approached the hostess.

"Jones and Hummel, we should be at table 3," Kurt said.

"Hummel is at table 3, but Jones is at 215," the hostess politely informed them.

"215?" Mercedes repeated.

"That has to be a mistake," Kurt insisted. "She's supposed to be up front with Senator Hummel, _the_ guest of honor."

"I understand that sir, but someone must have changed the seating arrangement and now the table has already been filled."

"Then change it back!" Kurt snipped.

"Kurt relax, it's not that big of a deal."

"Table 215 is all the way in the back Mercedes!" Kurt huffed. "You should be closer!"

"I'll be just fine," Mercedes assured.

"Is there still a seat for Blaine Anderson at table 3?" Kurt sighed.

"Yes sir, there is," the hostess replied.

"Fabulous," Kurt muttered, "the fool who can't be here on time has a seat but you don't."

"Stop worrying Kurt. I'll see you after the breakfast." Mercedes kissed his cheek lightly and headed over to table 215. There was no need to worry him with her silly superstitions. It wasn't like Martha Evans was going to make a surprise appearance—too many Democrats for that, though that didn't keep Mercedes from checking every blonde haired middle-aged woman anyway. When she reached 215, convinced that Sam's mother was not around the corner, Mercedes found it empty, but it didn't stay that way long. She soon felt a warm grip on right shoulder and heard the deep rumbling of an _old friend._

"So we meet again," Shane greeted as Mercedes stood to face him. He wasn't alone this time. Behind Shane were his parents, who were long time supporters of Burt Hummel, his sister Sonya and her husband.

"Mercedes darling, you look so beautiful," Mrs. Tinsley complimented. She was a pleasant woman, Sharon Tinsley-perhaps a bit too protective of her son Shane. However, that never caused any animosity between Mercedes and the Tinsley matriarch. In fact, Mercedes was on pretty good terms with most of the Tinsley women: Shane's aunt Clara still gave her family discounts when Mercedes visited her store, Sonya was almost always up for a Saturday morning brunch and Mercedes still had an open invitation to Nana Anne's, Shane's paternal grandmother, house. The family took up the rest of the table and soon after they were seated breakfast was served.

"So Mercedes, tell me," Sharon started, "are you seeing anyone lately?"

"Well no—"

"Actually mother, Mercedes is dating Sam Evans now," Shane announced as he sipped on his drink.

"Excuse me?" Sharon asked as her husband's thin brow disappeared into his hairline.

"Surely not Senator Richard Evans' son?" Congressman Tinsley frowned.

"The very one," Shane mused as he cut into his waffles.

"Is that true Mercedes?" Mrs. Tinsley asked her directly. "That has to be some sort of mistake."

Mercedes shot a hard look at Shane, who was too busy taking the first bite of his food to care.

"Yes, I am dating Sam Evans," Mercedes finally answered looking Congressman and Mrs. Tinsley in the eye. "Though I was under the impression that you already knew that Congressman."

"No," he replied sitting back in his chair, frowning at her as he crossed his arms. Mercedes held back a frown as the man tried to reproach her as if he were her own father. "I most certainly was not."

"Surely your parents don't know or else they can't be very pleased," Mrs. Tinsley continued.

"They do know," Mercedes replied, "and they aren't happy about it, but that currently isn't of my concern."

"Why, that is where you are terribly mistaken!" Mrs. Tinsley objected. "Do you know who the projected Republican front runner for the 2016 campaign is? _Richard Evans_! And I'm sure you're well aware of your father's own Presidential aspirations."

"I am quite aware—"

"And then so you know how they'll paint your father on the campaign trail," Congressman Simon Tinsley said.

"They're both unhappy, Senator. My father won't be the only target."

"The media always likes to attack the black man and his rights as a patriarch," the Congressman disagreed.

Mercedes bit her tongue as he continued on. "Besides your father is a good man, he plays by the book, so he won't shy away from his feelings for Sam Evans but Richard Evans…oh he'll try to make a show out of it. Convince the American people that he and his family will open their doors to a shunned Jones just to get what he wants. If he is successful in that, then you Mercedes will have become an alias in the potential destruction of countless of tax breaks for the poor and middle class, the total capitalization of both Medicare and welfare—"

"Congressman Tinsley and Mrs. Tinsley, I do appreciate your concern," Mercedes interrupted, standing to her feet, "and I would be happy to finish this discussion after I have a quick word with Shane."

Shane, who had been eating his meal without a care in the world, looked up and smiled pleasantly at her. However once they were in the lobby, all pretenses were dropped.

"So who told you?" Mercedes snapped.

"I really don't see why that matters," Shane shrugged.

"It matters to _me_ ," Mercedes growled. "Who told you?"

"Fine, it was one of your brothers, alright?" Shane told her. "But if that's all your concerned about, then you're completely missing the point!"

Mercedes' hand flew faster than even she anticipated when she went to strike Shane across the face.

"You missed the point when you decided not to drop it after yesterday," Mercedes said. "And bringing it up in front of your mother…"

"Who's like family, I should know," Shane snapped. "If she doesn't approve, just imagine what your aunts and uncles will say."

"You know what Shane? Fuck you and your twisted agenda," Mercedes huffed turning away from him.

"My twisted agenda?" Shane asked baffled. "I don't have any agenda."

Mercedes let herself be turned around by Shane as he told her, "I do this because I care."

"Wow," she replied, shaking her head in slight disbelief. "Did you really think that I was think naïve? That I wouldn't ask around after you came up to me yesterday with all that loud noise? You really thought that I wouldn't find about your plans to follow in your father's footsteps? But you know like everyone else that Simon Tinsley no longer has the clout to guarantee you a spot in the House. So you figured, since your father practically rode my father's coat tails _any damn way_ , why not just jump on the bandwagon? I'm supposed to be available and you've already got a history with me and that's exactly how's going to stay—a history, because I am far from single and even if that wasn't the case, I want NOTHING to do with you. However, I do wish you the best in your political aspirations Shane. I truly do hope that you make it into the House one day, hell even make it all the way to Speaker's chair. The higher the better, that way when you do fall it'll be hard enough to break your sorry black ass."

Mercedes turned from him and made her way back to their table. Shane sat down a few minutes later. The angry mark had faded but Shane wore a deep grimace in its place. Mercedes on the other hand turned back to his parents and smiled brightly.

"Now Congressman and Mrs. Tinsley, I do believe you two still had a few questions?"

Mercedes was left with no response, save for a low chuckle from Shane's sister.

On the corner of Maryland and 7th St, Sam Evans crossed the street with Quinn Fabray at his side. He wasn't really listening to what she was saying. It probably had something to do with the movie that they were going to see after brunch. It was some old horror film and apparently they were perfect for double dates with Finn. He loved the gore and terror, slipping into a trance like state as he took it all in, which would naturally be perfect timing for Quinn to give Rachel a few of her own surprises. Sam wasn't trying to judge, but he was going to be stuck in a movie with Finn Hudson, while his lesbian best friend planned to tease a response, probably an orgasm knowing Quinn, out of Rachel. Meanwhile his girlfriend was on the other side of town.

"Are you sure that all of this is necessary?" Sam asked as they approached the restaurant.

"Relax Sam," Quinn sighed. "All you have to do is play nice with Finn for a few more hours. Besides I'm paying you back with an all-expense paid trip for you and Mercedes to San Francisco. I even booked you a private booth at your favorite restaurant, even though it'll take a miracle for you two to leave the bedroom."

"Like you and Rachel are any better!"

Sam and Quinn entered the lavish restaurant to find Finn and Rachel already waiting for them.

"Finn, you look handsome. Rachel, I love that dress," Quinn greeted. Her eyes roamed up and down the flowing green maxi dress that even Sam had to admit she looked good in.

"Quinn Fabray party of four please," Quinn told the restaurant hostess.

Quinn led the party, Rachel behind her while Finn hung back with Sam.

"So are you still teaching at that college?" Finn asked.

"Sarah Lawrence? Yes," Sam answered.

"How long do you plan on doing that?" Finn asked him. "I mean I know that eventually you'll join the rest of us on the Hill."

Sam bit his tongue, trying to bite back his frustrations with yet another close-minded _cop_ who could barely see over Lincoln's Memorial. Lucky for him, there was a much better distraction.

"Is that Senator Jones?" Finn asked. Indeed it was and he was staring dead at them.

Sam took a deep breath; he'd never have another opportunity like this again.

"I need to talk to him," Sam announced as his group reached their table.

"What? Dude no," Finn objected. "He's only going to say something to insult your family and piss you off."

"I've been trying to get a hold of him for weeks for this new book I'm writing," Sam lied. "I'll be right back."

Senator William Jones III was sitting by himself, engrossed in his copy of the New York Times.

"Did you tell your friends the truth or a lie?" Senator Jones asked without bothering to look at Sam. "Actually don't answer that. I know you lied because the Berry girl would have been on the floor from shock. She's always had a flare for the dramatics; she gets it from her fathers. Hudson wouldn't know what to do with his precious bride and Quinn would be too busy trying to comfort Rachel to bother giving you the proper response. Secret lovers tend to do things like that or flirt with their private significant other when their family is around."

William turned the page as Sam sat down.

"How'd you know Quinn was a lesbian?" Sam asked.

"You forget that she lived with us during most of her pregnancy," Senator Jones replied. "I noticed then that she had a tendency to stare at my daughter's behind."

"Could have just been the pregnancy hormones," Sam suggested.

"True, but she stopped by a few weeks after she gave birth to Beth and that's when I noticed she also favored Isadora and her low cut tops."

He took a sip from his coffee, but still didn't bother putting down the paper. "So Mr. Evans what is it that you want? Actually, I know the answer to that too. You're here to "prove yourself" because you're upset about the fact that I threw you out a few weeks back."

"I'm here because I miss the beautiful smile that's usually on your daughter's face," Sam corrected. "I'm here because Mercy barely sings anymore. I'm here because she's about to move on to great things in her career and if this doesn't end now then you and the rest of your family will miss out on everything."

William Jones finally folded his paper and glared piercingly at Sam.

"Let me be frank with you Sam: I'll never like any man who claims to love my daughter."

"You seemed to get along with Shane Tinsley well enough," Sam interjected. "I'm only asking for half of that."

"Mercedes was never in love with Shane and his father isn't so much of an obnoxious know-it-all."

"Why Senator, are you suggesting that my father _is_ smarter than you?" Sam wasn't quite sure why he chose to tease the man now, but the small smirk the Senator quickly flashed told him that the slight was taken with grace.

"You wish," Mercedes' father replied. "But what I don't like more than men who claim to love my daughter are liars."

"You think I'm lying to you?"

"Why not? What makes me so special? You've lied to your parents about your affections for my daughter for the past _13_ years and you've had her lie to us, but what's even more is the fact that you're still lying as Ms. Fabray sits over there with Mr. Hudson and Ms. Berry awaiting your return. At the first sign of a roadblock, you retreat like a _child._ So the father of the supposed "girl of your dreams" doesn't like you. What a tragedy and does Romeo do? Decide to give another go with Rosaline-at least that's what he wants the world to think. That makes you a liar, Sam Evans and even more so a _coward._ And liars and cowards have no business being with my daughter. So yes, Mr. Evans," William Jones finished rising to his feet, "I don't want you to ever darken my daughter's doorstep again because you're just a sad little boy trying to make it in a man's world. Why don't you do yourself a favor and-what is it that you kids say nowadays? Oh, I remember, _grow a pair_."

Sam sat in momentary shock as the Senator walked away from him, but he quickly recovered and threw himself out of his chair and yelled, "Enough!"

To his credit, William Jones did stop, but he didn't bother to turn and face him.

"You're absolutely right in the fact that I've been a coward and a liar. Maybe I don't deserve her affection, but I am in love with her and I cherish everything that she's given me. So I will not stand by and let you try to tear us apart. She is everything to me, which is why you don't have to like me sir, but for her I will fight tooth and nail to earn your respect," Sam seethed.

"I'm sorry Mr. Evans," Senator Jones said loudly turning to face him, "I didn't quite catch the name of the woman that you were referring to."

"Mercedes Amber Jones," Sam replied. "Age 29, born July 15, 1980. Your daughter, sir."

"Is that so?" Senator Jones said feigning surprise. He turned to Quinn, who sat at her table, mirroring the shock from all the other restaurant patrons. "Well then Ms. Fabray, it seems that you have a case of infidelity on your hands."

Senator Jones took his leave after that with a slight smirk on his face. Sam would have followed him too, but Quinn had marched up to him and slapped him dead in the face.

At the penthouse that he shared with he-who-must-not-be-named, Kurt Hummel ran around furiously trying to gather everything that that he would need for his next event. The brunch for his father had gone over quite well despite the seat mix up with Mercedes. Things had looked a bit tense when Kurt went to check on her after the brunch, but he didn't have the time to ask her about it. It was a shame she had to deal with any of her ex's drama, especially since Blaine never- _Nope! Don't you dare go there!_ Kurt wasn't in the mood to break any more valuables, though he had mentally sworn to break the face of the multi-billion dollar heir. Kurt was just about to open the front door when it swung open and lo and behold, his personal prick in his side stood before him.

"Kurt, I am so sor-"

"Nope! Not listening," Kurt snapped. "I've got too much to deal with without adding your bullshit Blaine."

"Kurt, I'm serious!"

"I'm serious too! Hell, I was serious four months ago when I told you about the crazy important breakfast that the Chairwoman of the DNC was holding for my father! So I'm serious when I now say that I am so fucking angry that I can't stand to look at you right now that I can't even stand to look at you, especially when I know that you were with your father and whatever floozy he can throw at you to try to turn you straight! Hope it actually worked this time; that way you won't have to bother yourself with coming home to me," Kurt yelled.

"Just get out my way Blaine," Kurt sighed before Blaine could cut in. "I have to meet my father and these reporters and then maybe I'll think about coming back here so that I can rip your pretty little face off."

Kurt Hummel slammed the door in Blaine's face, leaving him to throw his fist against the oak wood, which Kurt would probably kill him for later. The pain was welcome in comparison to the agony in his chest. The worst of it was that Blaine had been with his father in a business meeting that went far too long and then morphed to an argument about Kurt, which of course Blaine's stubborn pride wouldn't let him walk away from. Then came the emergency calls from China and Spain and by the time Blaine had realized that he was getting played, he rushed out of the office-only to get stuck in D.C. traffic.

The pain that shot through his wrist was nice, but did little to quell his agitation; so when his work cell rang Blaine practically yelled, "What?" only to recoil when he heard the broken cries of Quinn Fabray.

"Wait, where are you…Okay, just try to relax for me…I'll be there in 15, better yet 10 minutes."

On the other side of town, Devon Andrew Jones was dealing with his own set of troubles-his sister.

"I can't believe the nerve of you two!" Mercedes hissed at him as he went to fill out one of his charts on a nurses' desk.

"For the last time 'Cedes I didn't call Shane Tinsley," Dev snapped. "But I sure as hell don't blame Rashad for doing so!"

"Which is exactly why you get to share the blame with him dear brother," she snapped back. "Both of are way out of line!"

"No one is forcing you to marry Shane, Mercedes. We're just saying not Sam!"

"Why because you think he's a petty little white boy?"

"No, because I think he's _the_ petty little white boy that will rip our family apart and frankly Sam Evans is not worth that!"

"You are such a hypocritical little bitch!" Mercedes exclaimed. "Do you not remember when Mom wanted you to break things off with Isadora? You didn't talk to her for almost five months! And when Dad tried to rein you in by threatening to pull back his funds for med school, you went and got a job and applied for every scholarship you could get your hands on, determined to pay for school. You almost took out your own loan, Devon!"

"That was different!" he argued.

"Bullshit!" Mercedes shot back. "Who stood by you then? Who convinced Mom to give Isadora another chance? This is really how you want to repay me?"

Devon Jones didn't say a word in reply and Mercedes absolutely refused to cry in front of him. They'd always been close; he'd been her protector as a child when Rashad had been too cool to hang out with his siblings, especially not his Barbie-loving baby sister. Not Dev though, he'd always been there for her and she in return for him. They'd been a team...

"You know I've learned a lot about myself over the years; including the fact that I deserve happiness. And anyone who can't see that Sam Evans makes me happy, that I love him, is not worth my time. Even if they are family."

She turned from her brother, her former best friend, and headed straight for the entrance all the while ignoring his trailing pleas. When she made it past the sliding doors, her eyes scanned for the rental car that she'd rented, but fell upon something must more pressing.

"Mercedes!" Devon called out, rushing out of the hospital. He stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the sight of a sleek black limo and the petite form of Martha Evans, dressed in a loose red sundress, standing outside of it by the passenger's door.

"It seems that you enjoy learning lessons the hard way, Ms. Jones," Martha Evans said lightly. "Do get in."

"Don't do it 'Cede," Devon warned.

"And if I refuse?" Mercedes asked Sam's mother.

"Oh you won't," Mrs. Evans replied confidentially. "You're too hell bent on getting permission to date my son."

"I'm not looking for your permission, and I'm certainly not hell bent to get it," Mercedes snapped.

"How about hell bent on destroying two political legacies then?" Martha amended. "Relax, Ms. Jones. If it's of any condolence, Sam is waiting for us."

"No he isn't," Mercedes said opening the back seat car door, "but I think it's high time that we got this over with, don't you agree?"

"Well, it seems that you may not be a complete loss after all," Martha Evans smirked as Mercedes closed her car door. Mrs. Evans shot Devon a sickly sweet smile before sliding into her own seat and ordering the chauffeur to drive.

The Evans estate was much larger than Mercedes remembered though she'd rarely entered through the front door during the dawn of day. It was much more extravagant than the property that his Aunt Mary and Uncle Dwight owned in the outskirts of the D.C. suburbs; the large ornate gothic black doors told Mercedes that much. Past the gate was a winding, thin road that circled around a modest fountain, which stood before the front door. When Mrs. Evans' chauffeur came to a complete stop by the fountain, Mercedes could see the form of a young man awaiting them through the window.

"Daniel, I see you received my message," Mrs. Evans greeted curtly as she headed straight for the door. "Do humor Ms. Jones here with a tour."

"A _tour_?"

"Oh don't take it as favor darling," Mrs. Evans chided, chuckling bitterly. "I just can't stand to inhale your perfume any longer."

Mercedes rolled her eyes as the older woman slipped into the large estate. Daniel, who Mercedes reasoned to be the Evans' butler, smiled brightly at her.

"Welcome Ms. Jones!" He spoke with a distinctive European accent, though Mercedes wasn't quite sure where the accent was from. He also smiled a bit too enthusiastically at her for someone who worked for the Evans' family—though Mercedes decided to chalk that up to good manners. _At least someone around here had some!_

"If it makes you feel better," Daniel said, "she's like that with everyone who ends up in your predicament."

"And how many people does she kidnap a year?" Mercedes scoffed.

"Forgive me Ms. Jones," Daniel chuckled softly, "but you did come willingly; I was always under the impression that kidnapping was an involuntary sort of matter."

"Technicalities," Mercedes muttered under her breath.

"Please follow me," Daniel instructed as he moved towards the door. The bright white foyer echoed with every step that Mercedes took, though Daniel seemed to dance lightly in comparison over polished tile.

"The Washington estate is one of the oldest and most grandeur of properties owned by the Evans family," Daniel explained as Mercedes surveyed the room. "Not everyone in the Evans family lives this way, though George Evans, the Senator's older brother and former Governor of New Hampshire did build a home similar to this, which he had to eventually sell. Senator Evans likes to joke that the reason he didn't get re-elected was because no one wanted to buy that house."

Daniel flashed Mercedes another bright smile, which she found herself hesitantly returning.

"Past those double doors," Daniel continued pointing in front of them, "is what most people would consider a family room, though Mr. Evans—Sam—likes to refer to it as the Gryffindor Common Room."

"How long have you worked here?" Mercedes asked politely following Daniel up left side stair case.

"Officially, for the last six or seven years," he replied.

" _Officially_? Don't tell me that the Senator employs illegal immigrants," Mercedes teased half-heartily. "I'm sure both sides would have a field day with that one."

"Ah no," Daniel laughed as the made up the first flight. "My grandmother came to America _legally_ many years ago and worked here when I was a child. When my father died, my sister and I came here. We were practically raised in this house."

"Let me guess," Mercedes started dryly, leaning against the door that Daniel had paused in front of, "you have some heartbreakingly sympathetic sob story for me that's supposed to make me think better of Richard and Martha Evans."

Daniel chuckled again. "I like you, Ms. Jones. Here, why don't you come inside?"

Daniel pushed open the door to reveal a grand library, with bookcases that reached to the ceiling and spread across the room. There were several plush sofas in the center of the room and two twin oak desk seated at either end of the library.

"This library was one of the first rooms finished in this house. It's my favorite room," Daniel informed her. "Mr. Evans' too. In the left case you'll find his comic book collection, all sorted by publication date within publisher of course. Though I'm sure the Senator wished that there were more of Sam's legal books here, he does understand the importance of the collection and requires that it be kept to the same standards as the other classic shelved. Here," Daniel went over to the bookcase and pulled out a comic from the fourth shelf, "is the first comic book that Mr. Evans ever purchased himself. It's a favorite of his. Flip to the sixth page, Ms. Jones."

Mercedes removed the protective cover and leafed carefully though the old comic to the page in question. When she did an old photograph nearly slipped between her fingers. She caught to find herself looking at her teenage reflection, filled with blissful joy and laughing wildly at something Sam must have said off camera. She hadn't seen this picture in years, or any other pictures from the summer before they both took off for college.

"Let me let you in on a little secret Ms. Jones," Daniel started. "When I was a younger man, I clearly remember Mr. Evans declaring to me that he only intended to bring home one girl to his mother and he only planned to bring her home two weeks before he planned on marrying her; that way his mother couldn't say no."

"Sounds like Sam," Mercedes smirked.

"In this house, Ms. Jones," Daniel continued, "there are fourteen pictures that Mr. Evans believes that he has concealed properly, nearly a dozen letters and even a few sketches of you. His mother may not like it, but at some fundamental level, she does acknowledge the fact that you care for her son and more importantly that he cares for you. If she didn't, then you would not be here Ms. Jones and there would be no reason for a tour."

"So you're saying that she sort of respects me," Mercedes said.

"Not exactly," Daniel amended. "Mrs. Evans will not make it easy for you, but that is simply her nature. She loves her son fiercely and will do whatever she thinks is necessary to protect him—especially from the love of his life."

"And why's that?" Mercedes snapped. "She doesn't want him to fall in love?"

"Does any mother want her son to really fall in love? Or a father for his daughter?" Daniel asked. "Particularly when they are well aware that the loves of our lives are often the ones who can break us the easiest? Parents are hypocritical by nature Ms. Jones, because they're much more invested in protecting their children than worrying about the care of others."

"This is more than just her mothering instincts," Mercedes argued.

"That is what you think," Daniel replied, leading Mercedes out of the library and down the staircase. "However, if you plan to be successful, you will have to forgo the idea that Martha Evans blindingly hates you."

"Skipping out on the full tour?" Mercedes asked as they reached the foyer again.

"Understand this Ms. Jones: at the end of the day, Mrs. Evans hates cowards," Daniel said smiling knowingly. "Prove to her you are not one and your days here will be much easier, that I promise you. Then, I will give you the sob story and the full tour. Right now, you have much more important things to do."

He gestured to the double doors past the foyer, that he'd mentioned in a passing earlier.

"Go through those doors, past the common room and you will find her waiting on the balcony," Daniel instructed before politely bowing and taking his leave.

Mercedes pushed through the double doors. She paused momentarily, seeing Richard Evans standing near the fireplace of the common room, his attention on the painting in front of him.

"I'm afraid that I cannot join you and my wife for lunch today, Ms. Jones," Richard Evans said, turning to face her. "Though, if it's of any sentiment, I did ask her not to leave any blood on the carpet."

"I'm sure she gave you no promises," Mercedes replied lightly.

A small smile appeared on the Senator's face before he answered saying, "I do believe I just saw a flash of what my son sees in you. Good luck showing Martha that. You'll need it."

Mercedes nodded as Senator Evans passed through the double doors into the foyer. She took a deep breath and let her eyes take in the portrait that Sam's father had been looking at just a few moments ago. It was of Sam and his mother—he looked rather young as he had his arms wrapped around his mother. Both of them were smiling brightly, two blonde beauties basking in the sunlight. There was a picture like this in her family's home: Mercedes with her arms wrapped around her father. Those were easier times, less complicated. As Mercedes took in the portrait of Sam and his mother the heavy desire to have that for herself with Sam at her side burned throughout her.

The hallway that curved around the common room led to a set of French doors that opened up to the balcony. She could make out a sketch of Martha Evans leaning against one of the banisters with her back to the doors. Mercedes took one last look at the picture before straightening her back and heading for the woman in red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot not thank my lovely beta Jill enough! And as always thank you for reading!


	5. Of Fairytales & Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Mercedes learns that some fights are just better settled at the dinner table, Blaine Anderson makes a potentially life-changing decision and the rest of Capitol Hill is in for a rather shocking surprise.

**Disclaimer:** I own absolutely nothing of Glee

* * *

Blaine was four years old when he met Sam Evans, but his first real memory of him came at seven. He'd been on a playground playing around with another young girl when sand flew into her eye. Blaine couldn't remember if he'd accidently kicked the sand but, he did remember his soon-to-be best friend emerge and comfort the young girl as tears streamed down her face.

"What did you do?" Sam had yelled. Even then, Blaine Anderson could shrug and slowly back away from the girl as Sam took over. He wasn't good with tears. That was Sam's thing. Blackmailing, being evasive and screwing up just about every important relationship that ever had, that was Blaine's division.

"Do you… uh want me to call Sam?" Blaine asked the tear stricken Quinn as he stood over her in DuPont Park. Blaine wasn't sure why he hadn't called Sam in the first place. He liked Quinn Fabray well enough, but this was Sam's friend.

"No," she said between sobs, "he probably won't even come after I slapped him."

Blaine cocked his head to the side. "Quinn...not to be completely insensitive, but you're crying in a park and you call the best friend of the guy you slapped?"

"Blaine I don't have anybody else right now," Quinn sighed. "I just need someone to listen."

Blaine was pretty damn sure that he was barely qualified to listen and support others through their personal problems. He had his own minefield of skeletons that he was barely holding his own in. But as Quinn's shoulders continued to shake pitifully, Blaine took a seat next to her.

"Let's start with the easy question," Blaine began. "Why did you slap Sam?"

"Everything about today was supposed to be easy, perfect," Quinn started. "All Sam had to do was humor Finn for a few hours while I worked on Rachel but then he saw Senator Jones in the restaurant and just had to go over there. I should have tried to stop him."

"He still would have gone, Quinn," Blaine sighed, well aware of his friend's tenacity. "His pride was hurt. Nothing you could have said or done would have stopped Sam."

"Yeah, well soon after I was left with a "boyfriend" screaming his love for Mercedes Jones."

"So you slapped him," Blaine finished.

"Yes…and no."

"No?"

"Yes, I slapped him, but…a few years ago it was all of us," Quinn continued. "We were all dealing with shit that our parents disapproved of: Santana for deciding to settle down with a stripper, your whole deal with your father and Kurt and of course there was Sam and Mercedes and now, everyone is moving forward, getting what they want, what they need while I'm…"

"Stuck," Blaine finished.

"Yes. At this rate Sam and Mercedes will be going down the aisle soon and I'll have to play the heartbroken ex-girlfriend _again_. Which would be fine if Rachel would just consider…"

"Wait a minute," Blaine interrupted. "You're pinning over a girl who is refusing to leave Finn Hudson? I thought you two were in love with each other?"

"We are! She is, it's just—"

"Don't tell me that Rachel Berry is in love with him too?" Blaine scoffed. "Quinn, please tell me you don't actually buy that pile of bullshit."

"No, I get that she's scared. I just can't understand _why_."

"It's because she doesn't love you," Blaine told her plainly. "I'm not Sam, Quinn. I won't sugar coat this for you. If Rachel Berry really loved you, she would fully give herself to this relationship instead of treating you like trash."

"You're one to talk," Quinn snapped.

"Excuse me?"

"Your definition of love is rather interesting," Quinn said, "especially since you don't follow it. You treat Kurt like shit, abiding by your father's rules. I don't judge you for it, because I get it. Sometimes what others see as twisted is the only way that a relationship can work."

By the end of Quinn's short little speech, Blaine Anderson was seething. This was definitely the child of a politician, twisting his words against him. However, that didn't make Quinn wrong; which in the end bothered Blaine more than anything.

"I need her," Quinn continued, "the same way that Sam needs Mercedes and you need Kurt. I need Rachel…"

"That may be true Quinn," Blaine interrupted, "but at the end of the day no matter how much bullshit we throw at our significant others and them at us, Sam and I would give the world for Mercedes and Kurt. And while you may be ready to give Rachel Berry the world, she's not giving it back, not even a continent or a state…"

"Stop it," Quinn warned.

"I told you I wasn't going to sugar coat this, Fabray," Blaine pressed on, "though I will make this short and sweet. You're right, my relationship with Kurt isn't perfect but if given the choice I would rather walk away from every dime I've ever inherited as an Anderson just to live in peace with Kurt."

"This isn't a Lifetime movie," Quinn frowned. "I'm not here for your sappy inspirational speeches."

"I know," Blaine replied, pulling out enough money for a cab fare. "Which is why after I leave, you'll pull yourself together only to conjure up another plan to get Rachel back and you'll do this for the next five or so years until someone, probably Rachel herself, formally outs you and no one will be there for you Quinn. Not your girlfriends, or the poor beard husband that you'll marry or even Sam, because in your quest to have this superficial love you will have pushed away everyone who gave an honest damn about you. So either enjoy the company of misery Fabray or walk away now."

Blaine placed the cab fare in Quinn's hand and turned to head back to his car. In about an hour he'd call Sam and have him check up on her. If he was truly angry with Quinn Fabray, which Blaine highly doubted, then perhaps that anger could be put to good use and give Quinn the ass kicking that she richly deserved and desperately needed. Ultimately in the end, Blaine knew that it had to be her choice. He couldn't spend any more energy worrying about it. Besides, he had more important things to handle.

"Call Dad's office," Blaine instructed his voice activated Bluetooth as he drove off. The phone rang three times before Allison, his father's secretary, answered the phone.

"Ms. Pepper, this is Blaine Anderson."

"Oh Mr. Anderson! Your father is in a meeting right now—"

"Ms. Pepper I want you to listen to me very carefully," Blaine instructed coolly. "When I end this this call you will go into my father's office and inform him that I am on my way and that I also don't give a damn who he's dealing with right now, unless he wants a scandal on the six o'clock news. When I step onto that floor I will have his complete and undivided attention."

Blaine hung up the phone before the woman could respond and tightly gripped his steering wheel. They needed this; but more importantly he needed this. Blaine was just about to dial his mother when he was alerted of an incoming call.

"Sam Evans Residence calling."

Blaine pulled the car over. Once he checked the number himself, his suspicions were confirmed. This was the house number for Sam's parents. Sam rarely called him at this number and Blaine highly doubted that after outing himself in a public setting that Sam ran back to his mother's house. Blaine let the phone ring until it hit voicemail and bit back a groan as the number came back again.

Willing himself to hit the talk button, Blaine brought the phone to his ear and said stiffly, "Blaine Anderson speaking…"

As she stood on the balcony of her home Martha Evans realized something rather important— she wasn't ready. She hadn't been ready since she sat in that hotel lobby on the eve of her son's graduation, waiting for him to make a decision between his family and his love for Mercedes Jones; or really since her son had dragged the young girl onto the stage at the luncheon to sing. In truth, Martha had known that he would choose the girl, in some ways Samuel was much like his father. His tenacious attitude towards romance and love gave Martha a strange sense of déjà vu, which she ultimately found highly unsettling.

"How much longer are you going to pretend I don't exist?" Mercedes Jones snapped from the table. She'd been sitting there for a while now, while Martha stood with her back to her.

"In a few years, I'm sure you'll wish that I had pretended longer," Martha replied, finally turning around to take a seat across from the younger woman.

"I've thought long and hard about how I was going to make you disappear," Martha began. "I originally suggested money to Richard, but he thought that was just a tad bit rude."

Mercedes was slightly unsettled by the lack of emotion on Martha Evans' face, though she straightened up to respond, "I wouldn't have taken your money."

"Everyone has a price dear, there's no shame in admitting that," Martha said. "And I'm well aware of your price—my son."

Mercedes watched carefully as the older woman sipped causally on her drink. She had her own cup in front of her, but Mercedes wouldn't dare touch it. There was no way that breaking through to Martha Evans would be as easy as eating crackers and sipping on warm tea.

"It's not poisonous, you know," Martha said lightly. "If I wanted to put something in your drink, I would have had Daniel offer it to you. Besides, there's too much work in hiding a body; I'd much rather have a quick chat."

"I was 19 when I met Richard Evans," Martha told her setting down her drink. "I didn't really have much family at the time and wasn't too interested in inheriting any, but Richard was insistent on me becoming his wife. Don't really know why—I thought he was a pompous fool like most of the political science majors at Cornell and had no qualms about hiding that from him. Though I imagine that's what he initially found attractive; someone who wasn't afraid to give him the unvarnished truth.

"He eventually won me over. I met his family once while he was in law school. They seemed to like me well enough. Once Richard graduated, we got married moved to Kentucky and that's when things got interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Well Ms. Jones, as I'm sure you well know, when you marry an Evans, you marry their entire family particularly, their father Ronald," Martha continued. "You should ask Mary about her sob story. It's a bit crueler than mine since they criticized her for being weak, which is rather humorous since half of the Evans women are stuck in 1943 or better yet 1843."

"They didn't like Mary Evans?" Mercedes repeated, shock coloring her voice. The woman had practically been an angel in the wings since the very beginning and Mercedes had yet to meet another person who wasn't infected by the crazy that often ran rampant in D.C.

"They still don't," Martha replied. "They're also not a fan of women who pride themselves in having their own opinion. Your relation would be by law, not by blood which means your opinion would mean close to nothing to them as a wife. There is of course a double standard for the men who marry in, though most of them are involved in politics."

"Is this supposed to scare me Mrs. Evans?" Mercedes asked.

"Ms. Jones, I'm only going to ask you to drop the attitude once. I don't get much nicer than this and we could always skip to the part where I kindly inform you that I am not at all opposed from bashing your pretty little head into this lovely oak table since you had my son lie to me for the last _13_ years _._ "

Mercedes took a sip of her tea to keep from throwing back a retort.

"To answer your question: no. Only a small fraction of this is about fearing the Evans family. Richard's family hates Mary's lack of opinions and refusal to become actively involved in Evans' family politics makes her a poor excuse of a woman in their mind. They hate me because I'm rarely shy about my opinions and find me a bit too involved in Richard's decision making process. We can argue the validity of the latter later. But let's be honest here; I think we both know which category you'll fall under. Our families are much more alike than anyone was ever been willing to admit over the last few years, so why wouldn't our children grow up to find each other attractive? You and Sam weren't the first ones."

Martha Evans chuckled slightly as Mercedes nearly choked on her drink.

"It was before you were even thought of. Richard was about half your age and each side's rejection of it was the first time that the two families had agreed on something that didn't involve and extra side of biscuits."

"Biscuits, really?"

"Why don't you pay more attention the next time your father treats you out to a meal. I'll bet my son's inheritance that he'll order an extra side of biscuits with his meal."

Mercedes frowned slightly. She didn't think her father ordered them _that_ often.

"It's not the fear of the family that I'm concerned with," Martha continued slightly solemnly. "Sam loves his grandfather, as I'm sure you are well aware. He spent countless summers with him as a child in Kentucky and I know for a fact that he still totes around the guitar that he gave him years ago. Ronald Evans was never supposed to be the face of Evans' politics, but when his older brother George died…well someone had to be the head of the family and Ronald has been obsessed ever since with making sure that his sons and daughters exude excellence in every aspect of their lives or face the consequences. Not just the monetary ones, but you have to know that Ronald will exile Sam and never look back. That's what you're asking of my son. While I may not be the biggest fan of Ronald Evans or the way he runs his own, I know the importance of family."

"And I don't?" Mercedes snapped.

"Oh Mercedes _please_ ," Martha Evans hissed back. "You've had your entire life handed to you on a silver platter. Never once have you had to bury your own parents and raise a sibling. You've never had to worry about where your next meal is coming from or tried to wrestle enough funds to clothe at least one person. Have you ever had your fairytale nearly snatched from you? Ever had to listen to someone tell the man that you love that if he doesn't serve divorce papers that he'll lose everything? Richard wasn't as close to his father as Sam is, but don't think that there weren't restless nights when I felt like a ghost in my own house, disconnected from everything that meant most to me. But you Ms. Jones, you'd have it worse. Sam wouldn't even want to look at you, let alone speak to you while he struggles to figure out whether his family is worth more to him than you. By the way, not liking someone for who they are is _far_ more insulting than being despised for the last name; however, if you keep this charade up you'll be well on your way to having the best of both worlds. Do you want me to tell you how your fairytale ends? Divorce in no less than 5 years. It starts with a light resentment. I'm sure you've already started to feel that; that quiet yearning to be back home, back to simpler times. It'll get worse for you. You'll want your parents and your brothers back. Soon you'll start distancing yourself from Sam to immerse yourself in either memories of the past or slowly find a different future. But in the end, you'll drive my son away until all you have is your old regrets."

"Are you done?" Mercedes snapped keeping her shaking hands under the table.

"Are you done with my son?" Martha asked sweetly taking another sip of her tea.

"Not by a long shot," Mercedes replied. "I love your son, and the difference between you and I is that I refuse to let my fear of the future hold me back from keeping Sam happy. Maybe you're right about the next five years but I'd rather have those regrets then rather than falling in line with everyone's twisted idea of what is best for Sam and me. We love each other. This isn't something that will disappear once you've thrown around some pathetic empty threats. Whether you like it or not, Samuel Evans is my future and any issues we have we'll get through together. Now if you have a problem with that Mrs. Evans I kindly suggest that you go kidnap someone who is naïve enough to care."

Martha Evans watched as Mercedes stood from the table and stormed out of the house. She continued to sit on the balcony, her mind ringing with her husband's prior words. He should be happy. She hadn't left any blood stains on the carpet or hardwood floor in this case. Daniel soon appeared, one of the house phones in his hands and a smile, as always, stretched across his face.

"Madam, I have Blaine Anderson on the line as requested," he announced.

"I suppose I should get this over with," Martha sighed extending her right hand.

"Blaine, this is Mrs. Evans," she began coolly. "My apologies for the wait, dear; I had another guest that needed to attend to."

"Understandable," Blaine replied.

"Good because I need you to understand something," Martha continued. "It's about Sam and his _precious_ Mercedes…"

Though miles from the Evans home, Kurt Hummel was just about as pleased as Sam's mother, and it was starting to show.

"Are you sure that you're alright?" Burt Hummel asked his son as the photographers took a five minute break.

"It's nothing that I want you worrying about," Kurt replied. "I'm just mulling over a discussion that I need to have with Blaine."

"What did the five year old do this time?" Burt asked frankly.

"Dad!"

"What?" Burt Hummel shrugged. "He acts like a little boy fighting with his father's coat tails. I'll never go back on my acceptance of you dating boys, but when I said 'boys' I meant _men_."

"Dad, please!"

"Congressman, we're ready for you now," one of the reporters announced. As Burt went to sit in the hot seat, Kurt was approached by one of the event coordinators.

"Um, excuse me Mr. Hummel, but there's a man who claims to know you and is refusing to leave-"

"Blaine!" Kurt snapped as his boyfriend, soon to be dead man, headed straight for him.

"What the hell are you…"

Kurt couldn't move or think. The papers that he'd balled up to smack Blaine with had fallen to the ground as Kurt froze against Blaine's demanding lips. He stayed that way until Blaine's teasing became more insistent and he was able to gently pry Kurt's mouth open and take complete dominance of the kiss. His hands were already everywhere, pushing Kurt's lithe frame closer to his. When Kurt finally began to respond his hands found purchase at the nape of Blaine's neck, teasing the un-gelled curls there. Both men were lost in a world of their own, completely oblivious to the flashing cameras behind them until Burt Hummel released an obnoxiously loud whistle.

"Now I thought I was the one with 35 years of service to our great nation's psychotic version of politics?"

Kurt used the photographer's temporary distraction to drag Blaine off into a corner.

"Have you lost your mind?" Kurt hissed. "That's bound to be on the 6 o'clock news! Your father—"

"I don't care," Blaine interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"I do not care what my father thinks," Blaine repeated. "I just need you Kurt. I know that it's taken me too long to do this but I don't know what I'd without and more importantly, I'm not interested in finding out. You're the only person in the world makes working in this town and filling my shoes bearable and I can't lose that. I can't lose you. I need you and I need you happy because when you're happy, I'm happy. So I told my father that he can either deal with the fact that I plan on taking you down to the nearest courthouse the second you say yes, or go find another assistant CEO for Anderson Incorporated."

Kurt stared back at him in complete shock. Sure, he'd been waiting years for Blaine to say this but now that the moment was here, Kurt barely knew what to say.

"Please say something, _anything_ ," Blaine said softly.

"I can't...I can't have you resent me for this later," Kurt said weakly.

"I could never resent the man who makes me happiest of all men," Blaine replied. "So what do you say? Are you interested in becoming Mr. Anderson?"

"Definitely interested," Kurt smiled, "but I want to wait until it's legal in all 50 states."

"I hope you're not counting Florida or Texas in that because that won't even happen in another 100 years."

"Now I wonder which political party is at fault for that..."

"Cute," Blaine replied as Kurt wrapped his arms around him.

"You know if we do get married—"

" _When_ we get married," Blaine corrected.

"You're going to have to either switch sides," Kurt continued.

"Never going to happen," Blaine swore.

"Or join the Log Cabin Republicans."

"That's also never going to happen," Blaine promised. "I may be gay but that doesn't mean that I have to sacrifice my political morals. The next thing you know the LCR is going to start advocating for welfare or higher taxes for the top 1 percent and don't get me started on their stance on the health care reform!"

Remembering the last time that he and Blaine argued over health care, Kurt decided it best to just kiss Blaine senseless if only to shut him up momentarily.

"Well it seems that the toddler is growing up," Burt Hummel said approaching his son and Blaine as they separated. "Congratulations on graduating from preschool Anderson."

"Congressman Hummel," Blaine politely greeted him. He had never been allowed to call Burt Hummel 'Mr. Hummel', let alone his first name.

"Dad," Kurt groaned.

"Look son, I'm happy for you," Burt said. "Overjoyed by the fact that the fourth grader over here has finally dislodged his head from his father's ass; however, that doesn't mean I have to start liking the boy. Though since you have elevated to your preteen years Anderson, I will let you call me Mr. Hummel. Maybe when he graduates from college I'll let him call me Burt."

"He never is going to like me," Blaine said to Kurt as Burt Hummel walked away.

"It could be worse," Kurt reminded. "Speaking of which, I need to call Mercedes."

"You'll see her tonight," Blaine said. "We've got dinner plans this evening, and then tomorrow all of the Dalton boys will be in town."

"Great!" Kurt sighed dramatically. "Jeff Sterling will rip D.C. to shreds while you, Wes, David and Nick sit back and watch him."

"Don't forget Sam," Blaine teased. "He always does have a good time with us. You're welcome to join us of course."

"Oh no! I am not going to sacrifice a good evening just to stick around for Jeff to get you all high on some crazy narcotics and destroy a bunch of national monuments," Kurt said. "And I'm NOT bailing anyone out of jail either. So, _please_ don't actually let him destroy anything in downtown D.C."

"How about I promise not to let Jeff drive?" Blaine grinned.

"Good enough I suppose," Kurt relented.

After Sam Evans' declaration, which only a romantic like his daughter-in-law Morgan would find touching, William Jones moved his afternoon paper read to Shelley's restaurant, which was a personal favorite of his. Unfortunately, he quickly learned that evading the Evans' men would not be so simple today.

"So I hear you and my son had an interesting chat today," Richard Evans said as he invited himself to sit down at William's table.

"I heard your wife kidnapped my daughter," William replied not bothering to look up from his paper.

"Is there anything that I can get you two gentlemen?" A waitress passing by asked.

"A side of biscuits please," Richard ordered.

"Two sides," William amended.

"I wouldn't call it kidnapping," Richard continued leaning back in his chair once the waiter left. "She did willingly get into the car."

"Under a false pretense I'm sure," William replied as he turned the page. "A simple technicality."

"So what did you think of Sam?" Richard asked.

"Naïve," William began after a moment's pause. He even temporarily put the paper down. "He cares for her, even a fool can see though he's rather tenacious, almost obnoxiously so…must be genetics. Shame that you couldn't wield him on a political track, though I'm not sure I'd take too kindly to another Evans on the Hill."

"Don't celebrate just yet," Richard smiled.

"Richard, I've given up on that dream for my daughter," William sighed. "Perhaps you should show your son the same courtesy."

"Politics doesn't just mean lawyers and congressmen and presidents. You know that William," Richard Evans argues. "Just as well as you know how quickly the tides can change in this town."

William Jones shrugged. It certainly was not his job to try to teach Richard a lesson or two about parenting. He had to waste enough effort every day on the Senate floor teaching him how to be a proper politician, though William was sure that he would argue otherwise.

"What did you think of Mercedes?"

Both men straightened up when their food arrived and Richard didn't offer a response until he'd taken the first bite of the warm golden bread.

"You're the one who always thinks that you know the answer for everything," he replied. "Why don't you tell me what I thought of your daughter?"

"Well you left her alone with Martha. You couldn't have liked her that much."

"Or I thought she could handle her own," Richard corrected. "Martha is never going to have any respect for your daughter if Sam or I have to regulate and babysit their encounters. Sometimes you have to throw your kids in the pit and hope they can make it back out. Even if they fail, they're always better for it."

William grunted, understanding and even agreeing with the logic behind it, but that was still his baby girl.

"You should know that this isn't keeping me from running in the 2016 race," William announced after a few more bites.

"I never expected you to," Richard replied. "Here's a little known secret: I never had any intentions of running. Just needed to keep a select others from joining the race."

"Be nice to Santorum, Richard," William teased. "Everyone has the right to run."

"He nearly made a laughing stock of the GOP in 2012. I'm not going to sit back and let him do it again, especially since you're planning to run."

"Shame," William chuckled.

"Though I do have someone else lined up who is going to wipe the floor with you Jones."

"Oh? Is he Hispanic by chance?" William replied. "Because the Republican Party is going to need all the help they can get in 2016. Just ask the politicians in Texas. It's a little thing called minority majority. We're going to kiss the Grand Old Party goodbye in the next 50 years."

"We'll see about that," Richard Evans smiled.

"I have got to be having a hallucination."

Both men turned to see Rashad Jones staring at each of them as if each man had grown a second head.

"I'm going to see if I can get these biscuits to go," Richard announced taking his leave. "Good day gentleman."

"Sit down Rashad," William instructed once Richard left.

"Tell me this is a joke Dad," Rashad pleaded, sitting across from his father.

"You don't understand because you're still too young," William began.

"I'm not a kid anymore," Rashad interrupted. "I have children of my own!"

"Who are five and six," William snapped. "As your mother would say, I'm an old man with a bad back but more importantly, I miss my baby girl. I don't have to like that she's in love with Sam Evans, I'll probably never will, but that doesn't mean that I can't respect it."

"People are going to think that both families are going weak," Rashad argued.

"Until the dimwits at the Washington Post start complaining about the gridlock in Congress over healthcare, welfare, taxes and just about everything else that Richard Evans thinks he knows about."

Rashad groaned into his hands. "With the election coming up, this is going to be a PR nightmare."

"Yep," William agreed, returning to his paper.

"And I'm going to have to take care of it!"

"Well that _is_ a part of your job description. I also need you to get me a box for these biscuits."

"Where are you going?" Rashad asked watching as his father stood to leave.

"Well your mother called not too long ago," William replied. "Besides we need to get ready for family dinner tonight. We'll be eating out at her request, but you don't go anywhere until you find a box for my food."

"You and these damn biscuits," Rashad muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" William Jones asked.

"Nothing," Rashad answered, not at all interested in meeting the wrath of God. "Morgan and I will meet you at the house."

By the time Sam Evans made it back to his hotel room he felt as if a lifetime had passed. After Quinn had slapped him and was escorted out by Rachel Berry, Sam was left with "righteous Finnegan" who proceeded to lay it in on him of why he shouldn't mess up a catch like Quinn Fabray. It ended with a few punches thrown on both sides, though in the end Sam had supposed that it got him the best of both worlds: Quinn got her alone time with Rachel and he didn't have to sit through brunch and a movie with Finn Hudson. At least that's what Sam thought until Blaine called to tell him about his chat with Quinn. When Sam found her, she was still sitting the park where Blaine had left her. She barely said a word as he got her home, though she did offer an apology.

_"I shouldn't have slapped you like that in the restaurant," she mumbled against her pillow. "I really am happy for you and Mercedes."_

_"I know Que," Sam told her, "and I should have given you a heads up."_

_"Yeah ,next time we're in that situation maybe you should throw me the Vulcan Salute so that I can get my fake tears ready," she smiled through her drying tears._

_"Ladies and gentlemen, Quinn Fabray, the nerd!" Sam teased._

_"Well of course I've picked up some things over the years. You're my only friend," Quinn replied._

_"I'm not your only friend Quinn," Sam said. "Blaine wouldn't have wasted a second of his time if that were true. He hates romance and tears. His own love life is a soap-opera."_

_"Yeah I sort of threw his shit with Kurt back at him," Quinn admitted._

_"Good, the more the merrier!" Sam joked. "I'll be back in a few days just to show you how wrong you are."_

As Sam walked into the bedroom, he could hear the soft sniffles of Mercedes.

"Babe? Is everything alright?" Sam asked as she quickly dried her tears.

"I'm fine," she answered. "It's just been a long day."

"Don't hold back with me Mercy. You can tell me anything."

"It was just a lot of drama and people's opinions," she told him. "I ran into Shane again, who told his parents at Burt Hummel's breakfast about us, so I had to listen to them rant and rave."

"All you have to do is say the word and you know that I would be more than happy to inform Shane Tinsley of how no one gives an actual fuck about his opinions."

"I know that conversation will involve more fists than words; so no thank you Sam."

Mercedes did reach out to pull Sam in her embrace. "I also had lunch with your mother today."

Sam tilted her chin so that she could meet his solemn expression.

"Whatever she said to you, I'm sorry and I promise to speak with her personally about it tomorrow."

"Honestly I'm not worried about it," Mercedes said. "I'm just happy to spend whatever time we have together."

"Couldn't agree with you more," Sam smiled, kissing their intertwined fingers. "Mercy, this isn't going away anytime soon. You're stuck with me, pretty lady."

They shared a few soft kisses. When Mercedes tried to lead him towards the bed, Sam stilled her hips.

"We've got dinner with Kurt and Blaine tonight. I promised Blainers that we wouldn't skip out on them. Plus, he's got some pretty big news to share."

Mercedes gave Sam her infamous pout that made him chuckle. He in returned kissed her frown and started a hot trail of kisses to her ear before growling, "Dinner with the boys, then afterwards I promise that you and I will have Mercy time _all night long_."

His hands traveled to her voluptuous behind and used the leverage to press their hips together.

"Sam," Mercedes whined wantonly.

"Dinner first, then dessert," Sam promised, his hands moving to capture her breast.

"Will I enjoy whatever's on the dessert menu?" Mercedes asked as Sam put his attention in fondling with the peaks of her breasts.

"I'll make sure of it," Sam promised with a wicked grin.

Sam's roaming hands caused them to leave a bit later than originally anticipated, but the light traffic through town made up for that and Sam and Mercedes walked through J&G's Stake House with bright smiles on their faces. Until they both saw their separate families...sitting at the same table.

"What the hell? Where are Kurt and Blaine?"

Mercedes looked between both sides checking to see any signs of blood drawn as Martha Evans rolled her eyes.

"It's called a white flag," the older woman sighed. "Have either of you ever heard of one?"

"You don't sound too happy about this," Mercedes frowned.

"Neither is your father. What well-meaning parent wouldn't be?" Martha replied. "But you two have the rest of them convinced that you're in love and therefore, we shouldn't be standing in your way."

Mercedes continued to frown at Sam's mother. White flag or not she couldn't simply shake the woman's stance from earlier in the day.

"Did she give you the fairytale speech?" Mary Evans asked Mercedes. "The one where she tells you a bit about her past and then you how your future will end? She usually does it on the balcony and likes to ignore you for the first five minutes.

"It was a test," Mercedes muttered realization hitting her.

"Of course it was a test," Martha replied. "I may respect the opinions of my brother-in-law and his wife but that doesn't mean I'm going to believe them."

"You didn't really think she'd make it too easy for 'Cede baby," Irene Jones added.

"Am I the only one who is slightly unnerved by how well you're taking this mother?" Rashad asked.

"No," Isadora answered. "You've just never had to ask her permission to marry one of her children!"

"And there is a sign of intelligence at this table," Martha said raising her glass to Isadora.

"Martha gave me that speech just about three years before Dwight and I got married," Mary said, smiling knowingly.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of hint Mary?" Martha asked. "Because 2016 is bound to be the election year from hell and I'm not going to a Jones-Evans wedding. Find another date."

"Amen," Irene agreed as Sam left Mercedes' side to kneel at his mother's. Despite the distance between them over the years and her white flag now, Sam knew that this wasn't easy for her and it would take time for his mother to formally welcome Mercedes into their family, but the fact that she was at least willing to try made him happier beyond words.

"Thank you," he told her softly.

"Don't thank me just yet," Martha warned her son. "Your father and I are not going to be the ones to tell your grandfather. You know he's going to disown you. All of them will."

"I know," Sam assured her, "but she's more than worth it."

"That sounds rather familiar," Dwight smiled as Martha squeezed her son's hand.

"Well here's the real question Martha: After all was all said and done, were those two men over there worth it?" Irene teased.

Martha Evans looked at her son and husband fondly before replying, "Debatable."

Even Mercedes laughed at that and she accepted Rashad's small smile as she took a seat next to her oldest brother.

"I'm glad you're here now Rashad," Mercedes told him, "but don't think that you and I won't be having words later about that little stunt you pulled with Shane Tinsley."

"Ooh, can later be now?" Martha Evans smirked.

"You can kill Rashad later, Mercedes," William Jones said from his wife's side.

"The goal is to not let any blood stain any surfaces," Dwight teased.

"Don't forget to not leave behind any fingerprints," Richard Evans added.

"Should we be concerned with the Evans family's apparent fascination with getting away with murder?" Devon asked lightly.

"No," Martha answered. "I think Mercedes has the right to know that we plan to end her and get away with it if she hurts my son."

"Mom," Sam groaned.

"No, that's fair Sam," Rashad cut in, "because I'll kill you if you hurt my baby sister and Devon and his M.D. degree will help make sure that I make it as painful as possible and then between my law degree and Dad's position as a Senator, we'll _definitely_ be getting off clean."

"Or cause a political scandal that puts Watergate to shame," Irene Jones scoffed.

"Sweetheart, I can recite Gray's Anatomy in my sleep," Martha said plainly. "I don't need an M.D. degree to cause pain."

"Okay, now that everyone has gotten the necessary threats out of the way," Mary Evans interrupted before Rashad or Devon could get in another word. "How about a toast? To expanding our family."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves. That technically won't be happening until another three plus years," Martha reminded, raising her glass nonetheless.

"How about to growing pains then?" Mercedes suggested, one hand intertwined with Sam's.

Martha Evans smiled slightly and replied, "That sounds more like it."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Ladies and Gentleman, we are swiftly approaching the end of this fic, though some of you may be happy to hear that I'll have a surprise for you by the time Crossing the Aisle ends. I have to give a shout out to the lovely Jill for beta reading! As always thank you for reading and don't be afraid to drop in a review/kudos!
> 
> Much Love,
> 
> Santiva Potter


	6. Happy Birthday Mr. President

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the world around him is making way for the political showdown of the century, Sam Evans learns the value of standing his ground and compromise.

For the first time in his adult life Sam Evans wagered that he was experiencing true happiness—though that was probably because he had just handed out a 10 page research paper to his class of 23. There was nothing better than watching his students moan and groan.

"C'mon guys, you're all at least 20 years old," Sam told his students. "One 10 paged, double spaced paper that analyzes any trend in any form literature over the last 20 years from any country in southeast Africa isn't that bad. Just remember keep it in 12 Times New Roman and anyone who puts their periods in 14 will be re-writing the paper by hand on college ruled paper."

Sam chuckled as he watched some faces drop and then promptly dismissed his class. He was already pushing it to make his train. As Sam made his way to his office to drop off a few things, he quickly responded to a text from his mother asking what time he'd be in D.C. that evening. The office hadn't changed much since he officially obtained his PhD. His desk was still a cluttered mess with various papers to grades, books to read, and pictures of his friends and family. There were no longer any photographs of his extended family. As his mother had predicted, Ronald Evans had refused to support Sam if continued with his relationship with Mercedes, though he was "kind" enough to give the offer of accepting him back into the family if he gave her up. Sam told his grandfather that while he still loved him, he shouldn't bother holding his breath. He ended up leaving the guitar that his grandfather had given him as a child at the family's estate in Kentucky and bought himself a new one once he'd returned to the city. To replace the old pictures Sam had added a few more shots of Blaine and Kurt and of course the lovely Mercedes Jones, including one where she was sporting new hardware on her left hand.

" _Alright Martha," Richard Evans said suddenly over dinner one night. "I think it's high time that you gave it up."_

_It had been almost two years since their families came together over dinner. Two years since Sam had become a regular Sunday night visitor at the Jones' dinner table and Mercedes a regular at the Evans estate on Wednesday evenings. Two years and still Martha Evans and her husband always managed to surprise the young couple._

" _Richard please stop talking before I start treating you the way Irene does when her husband steps a toe out of line," Martha said coolly._

" _Martha he's right," Dwight Evans added._

" _I'm sorry Dwight you joined this conversation because?" Martha replied._

" _Guys," Mary said as her children, Stevie and Stacie, perked up to watch their aunt take on their father and his older brother._

" _Well it's my gift. I'll give it when I feel like it," Martha announced._

" _I just love it when they talk as if we're not sitting over here," Sam cut in._

" _Well, that's being going on for at least the past fifteen years. One would think—"_

" _Martha," Mary interrupted. "Just give it to her."_

" _Fine," Martha said. "Ms. Jones will you follow me please? Mary you might as well come along so Mercedes can be sure that I don't try to harm her."_

" _Well Daniel has already given me the full tour," Mercedes said as she stood. "I know where all the secret exits are located."_

" _I'm sure you'll find that useful," Martha said dryly as she led the two women away._

_She took them to the second floor parlor and had Mercedes sit down in the chair closest to the grandfather clock._

" _Now despite popular belief," Martha began, "I'm actually not one for dramatics—"_

" _Bullshit," Mary Evans said behind a cough._

_Martha shot Mary a side look before telling Mercedes, "As I was saying, I believe it's about time that I gave you this."_

_She handed Mercedes an ornate wooden box that had the Evans family seal carved onto the top. Inside of the box was a thick roped silver bracelet with an 'M' and 'E' charm hanging from it._

" _The matriarchs of this family have been passing down versions of this bracelet for over a century. One letter for the first letter of the first name and the second of course for the name that we all share," Mary explained._

" _It's typically given at weddings but since I know that Sam is going to ignore my wishes about not having a 2016 ceremony I figured that I should give this to you before I lose my good mood," Martha added._

" _Sam hasn't even proposed yet," Mercedes reminded her._

" _Evans men are notorious for short engagements," Mary said._

" _Do you really think the election will be that bad Mrs. Evans?" Mercedes asked._

" _I just think election year in general is a headache," she replied lightly._

" _Well thank you Mary…Mrs. Evans," Mercedes smiled letting the bracelet catch the light._

" _You know when you two do get married, you're going to have to call me Martha," the older woman said. "Or better yet Mrs. Martha, I don't like you_ that _much."_

" _You're never going to make it easy are Martha?" Mary sighed._

" _Wouldn't be nearly as fun if I did," Mary smiled as she made her way out of the parlor._

Sam was just glad that two of the most important women in his life were getting along. They still disagreed and his mother gave Mercy a hard time whenever possible, but it was less about spite and more about humor. Mercedes could take a few jokes at her own expense for the sake of keeping things calm between the two families. Lord knows that Sam took hits every time he and Rashad were in the same room.

Sam made it to the New Rochelle Amtrak station just before the doors closed. As he made his way to the Business class seats, he came across the warm smile of Quinn Fabray.

"Well hello there stranger," she greeted. "Mercedes mentioned that you'd probably take the train into D.C."

"You're going to the birthday bash too?" Sam asked.

"No," Quinn replied. "I'm getting off at Grand Central but I figured that it would be a good chance for us to catch up."

"So I can tell you how un-amused I am by the fact that now everyone has met this mystery girl except me?" Sam huffed.

"She's not a mystery girl Sam. You've seen plenty of pictures," Quinn blushed. "Plus you two have chatted over the phone. You're practically best friends now!"

When Quinn had mentioned Lyra Haywood in a passing six months after the reunion two years ago, Sam just knew. The two women were just friends at the time, but Sam could just see a small spark in Quinn that seemed to ignite as the years passed. Lyra brought good energy for Quinn. Sam couldn't certainly give her all of the credit. After Rachel ran off to marry Finn, Quinn moved out of her parent's home and fell into photography after she started volunteering at an art gallery in Harlem. She had just finished an 18 month certification program at a local art school in the city was trying to jumpstart her own photography business.

"I heard some interesting news last night," Quinn began.

"Oh dear God," Sam groaned. "Don't tell me he tapped you too! Dad already convinced Blaine, that traitor. I don't need you joining the Dark Side along with him."

Quinn simply smiled at her friend. "If you're talking about Wilkins' job offer then you should relax. I'm not going to tell you all the different reasons of why you should join Wilkins' campaign and for the record, your father didn't tell me about that one, Mercedes did."

"I do my father one favor—write just a few speeches for him and now he's trying to everyone, even my girlfriend…the daughter of his political rival, to convince me that I should join Wilkins' campaign!"

"Now I know for a fact that you're not getting any pressure from Mercedes," Quinn said, "but you can't really blame everyone else."

"I'm not interested in politics," Sam argued.

"You're also not interested in William Jones becoming President of the United States," Quinn brought up.

"Of course I'm not! I'm going to be his son-in-law soon. Who wants to ask the President of the United States to marry their daughter?"

"I'm not judging you for your reasons," Quinn laughed, "but don't come crying to me when the Jones' residence address changes. Besides, you're already taking off for the spring and summer semesters."

"To focus on my book, not the polls," Sam said.

"You've been slaving over this book for over a year now and you're still in the same place. You need a healthy distraction. Besides, you'd be working in conjunction with the communications department and policy team, which is a great jumpstart to Director of Speechwriting."

"One fucking favor," Sam groaned as Quinn laughed.

"I said I won't tell you what to do and I'm going to stand by that," Quinn said. "Do what makes you happy Sam, though this conversation wasn't what I was originally talking about."

"Oh?"

"Rachel Berry called me last night," Quinn told Sam. "She's getting a divorce from Finn. Actually he threw her out. He knows everything."

"Everything? Holy shit," Sam said. "How?"

"I don't know the specifics of it all," Quinn answered. "She was still pretty upset when she called, but Finn Hudson is planning on wiping his hands of Rachel Berry and he's telling everyone _everything_."

Quinn pulled out a copy of the _Roll Call_ newspaper, a daily of DC. On one side of the column there was a picture of Rachel under the caption: Republican Princess Unveiled.

"There's a full page article in the back," Quinn continued. "Apparently Finn's rival for that congressman's seat got pretty nasty and the other side found out about Rachel's rendezvous with women and tried to use it against Finn as a means to make him fold. I guess Finn decided that he'd rather crucify her."

"Well precious Finnegan hasn't been the most loyal doting husband either," Sam frowned. "Remember Boca Raton?"

"I know and I told Rachel that and she now wants to countersue for defamation of character," Quinn said.

"Jesus, that's going to get nasty real quick, isn't it?" Sam sighed. "I'd hate to be an attorney in the middle of that shit storm."

"She wants me to come back to D.C.," Quinn said to Sam. "Rachel wants me to stand by her, to help her."

Sam stared aghast at Quinn until she pressed him to say whatever was on his mind.

"Tell her no," Sam nearly shouted. "Fuck no! I feel for Rachel Berry, I really do, but fuck her feelings! She had ample time to turn her shit around. Nobody forced her to marry Finn Hudson. Even after the reunion you still tried to go back and talk to her. She chose this fate and I'll be damned if I let you screw up a good healthy relationship with Lyra over some Rachel Berry tears. I'll even help Santana go all Lima Heights Adjacent or whatever the hell Santana likes to say when she's about to take someone to the damn carpet. I'll even send Jeff Sterling in there with his fucking eidetic memory to go find Rachel's social security number and give to Blaine to fuck her up before I co-sign you going to DC for her. No Quinn. Hell to the no."

"Okay Sam I get it," Quinn said before he could go on.

"Sorry, I think I was channeling a little bit of Mercedes there at the end but simply no," Sam said. "No, no definitely not."

"Thank you for reminded me how much of a nerd you really are," Quinn teased. "Are you sure you're not gay?"

"Hey I know you saw the movie; you heard JT-liking Harry Potter does _not_ make you gay!"

The two of them chuckled for a few minutes before Quinn sobered up to tell him the rest.

"I told Rachel no," she admitted. "Lyra was right there with me when she called. While what we have may be relatively new, it's still means too much to me to let go of right now. I can't be down there in DC with Rachel and keep moving forward with Lyra."

Sam, who was ready to break out into the hallelujah chorus, simply nodded and smiled.

"I'm glad you're doing this for you Que," Sam told her. "Now when am I getting my face to face with the lovely Lyra?"

Dusk was starting to fall in DC by the time Sam made it into Union Station. It didn't take long to spot the stretch limo waiting for him outside. Inside, Blaine Anderson, still dapper as ever was just getting off of the phone when Sam slid in.

"You come to your senses yet?" Blaine asked as he tucked away his Blackberry.

"I can't believe you'd betray me like this," Sam sighed.

"Stop looking at this as a betrayal and see it as an opportunity."

"But you know that I don't want anything to do with politics."

"Says the guy who argued for two hours straight last spring about how Wilkins' platform and strategies were far more superior to VanHusen…who I publicly backed!" Blaine argued. "Sam, I'm not saying that you have to dive into a life of politics like your father, but you can't tell me that you wouldn't be good at this."

"Speechwriting is a completely different game," Sam reminded his friend.

"I understand that," Blaine said, "but we both know that you can do this. I just don't want to see you waste a good opportunity just because we spent our youths trying to revolt against our parents' demands and expectations."

"Can we drop this conversation before I get the urge to falcon punch you in the throat?" Sam frowned.

"Fine, you big baby," Blaine relented. "What's going on with you and this ring?"

"It won't be tonight—"

"Jesus Christ Sam!"

"I have to ask her father first," Sam cut in. "Good grief, Burt Hummel was right. You _are_ a kindergartener!"

"High school graduate asshole," Blaine corrected. "Kurt says hello by the way. We'll all have to catch up later."

"You're not coming to the President's birthday party?" Sam asked.

"Besides the fact that I refuse to be in the room with that many Democrats, Mr. Hummel-Anderson and I are taking a red-eye flight to Prague tonight," Blaine explained.

"You do like saying that don't you?"

"Yes, Mr. soon-to-be-Mercedes-Jones, I do," Blaine smirked.

Blaine Anderson-Hummel was a smug bastard but Sam couldn't really blame him with the year he'd been having. After the photographs of Kurt and Blaine had been released, Levi Anderson was quick to drop his son from the company, so Kurt and Blaine decided to take some time off. They traveled the world for a while. When they returned, Blaine put his energy in support the legal side of Kurt's fashion endeavors all the way, watching as the stocks of Anderson Incorporated plummeted in a stabilizing stock market. It had taken a little over a year before the Head of the Board of Directors came to Blaine asking for him to return. And Blaine Anderson being the pretentious asshole that he is said no—not until Levi stepped down as CEO and personally asked Kurt's permission for him to come back. Sam had been floored when Blaine first told him of his demands. However, even he had to admit that it had been a sweet sight to watch the great Levi Anderson ask his future son-in-law if he could convince his heir to return to Anderson Incorporated. Blaine had thought that Kurt should have at least made the man get on his knees and crawl, to which Sam agreed as it would have been quite the sight. However, Kurt wasn't a fan of cruelty. Within a year of Blaine's return, Anderson Incorporated had reasserted itself as a financial giant, obtaining new investors and vendors and Blaine had decided to celebrate his success by putting a gold band on Kurt's left hand. It hadn't been easy—Kurt argued for waiting until marriage equality existed in all fifty states. But as usual, Blaine managed to weasel his way, agreeing to a re-commitment ceremony once gay marriage was nationally legal and a $7500 donation to GLADD.

"Kurt wants to adopt," Blaine announced as the neared the penthouse he shared with Kurt.

"And what does Daddy Blaine think?" Sam asked.

"That he's not exactly cut out to be a father," Blaine answered honestly.

"Well lucky for you, being an asshole is only a genetic thing," Sam teased. "Nothing you can pass on to an adoptive child. Plus for what it's worth, I think you'd make a great dad. Just don't adopt any girls. I shudder to think what you'd do to the poor kid she'd have a crush on, or worse try to bring home."

"Like you'd be much better!" Blaine threw back.

"That's probably true. How about we both agree to aid this world's overpopulation crisis by raising boys?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Blaine replied as the car came to a stop. "They're outnumbered by women 2 to 1 anyway. Try not to break anything in the apartment."

"You know we've been best friends for as long as I can remember," Sam frowned, "and every time I come over, you still say that. I was the best man at your wedding, for Christ's sake! I must say Blaine, I'm hurt."

Blaine, not buying an ounce of Sam's bull simply shook his head and said, "Just go upstairs to change so that you can look pretty when you ask Senator Jones if you can marry his daughter."

"Have I mentioned how much I hate you lately?" Sam asked as he made his way out.

"I love you too Sammy boy!" Blaine sang to the tune of _Danny Boy._

"Danny Boy you idiot! The song is called Danny Boy!" Sam yelled as the car peeled from the sidewalk. He didn't need to hear his friend to know that Blaine was laughing.

Normally Sam wasn't a fan of Washington D.C. at night, though that probably had more to do with the pretentious parties that he'd been forced to attend in his youth and during his days as an associate at Schuester and Sons. However, as Sam made his way through White House security personnel, he had to admit that it was a wonderful night to be in D.C.

President Obama's 54th birthday party was in full swing by the time Sam made it past security. He'd been slightly surprised when William Jones extended an invitation to him. Senator Jones and the former senator from Illinois had kindled a friendship during Obama's term as a US Senator. Sam wasn't quite sure how his father had managed to get an invitation, though he wasn't surprised to see both his parents along with his aunt and uncle amongst the crowd.

"Scoping out the competition?" Sam teased as he approached his family.

"Very funny," Mary said. "I'll have you know that the First Lady invited us."

"Yep, she and Mary have been rather cordial since Irene introduced them," Martha Evans explained.

"And what does our lovely First Lady think of you, mother?" Sam grinned, well aware of the story.

Martha shot her son a bright smile and said, "Samuel dear, you do like the ability to breathe, don't you?"

"Yes mother," Sam chuckled. "I do."

"Do you plan on breaking hearts tonight?" Mary Evans asked beaming.

"No, I still need parental permission," Sam explained.

"You haven't asked him yet?" his mother sighed. "That's the same excuse you had during the 4th and Easter."

"Not to mention Christmas and Thanksgiving," his father added.

"So, I've been a bit patient," Sam defended. "There's a very real chance that this time next year he could be well on his way to becoming the President of the United States!"

"So, marry the girl before that happens!" Martha told her son. "That or have a _really_ long engagement.

"They've been practically engaged for the last fifteen years Martha, how much longer do you want him to wait?" Dwight cut in.

"Then what's another four?" Martha shrugged.

"It could be eight," Mary reminded her.

Martha turned to her sister-in-law and said gravelly, "We do not speak of such evil things."

Sam coughed loudly, breaking their conversation as Senator William Jones and his wife Irene came into view.

"Oh William, just the man I wanted to see," Martha smiled, whilst her family looked on with slight apprehension. "Samuel here needs to have a private word with you."

Sam and Richard looked at Martha in complete shock as Irene, Mary and Dwight seemed to be holding back laughter. Sam stepped up to his mother and whispered, "Didn't I drop the whole Michelle Obama thing earlier?"

"That is true," his mother smiled, "but it took me over 17 hours to bring you into this world. If you are at all feeling a little unappreciative of that, I would be happy to take you out of this world in less than 17 _seconds_."

"So, are we having this private chat Mr. Evans?" William asked Sam.

"Why yes sir, I believe we will," Sam said, leading him away.

Once the two men left, Dwight and Irene released their laughter while Mary chided her sister-in-law.

"Could you have been any more obvious?"

"Mary honey, William has known since Christmas," Irene assured.

"That wasn't funny for Sam, Martha," Richard Evans frowned.

"I just did us all a favor," Martha said coolly. "It's about time we got this how on the road."

"Martha, are you trying to tell me that you're looking forward to having Mercedes as your daughter-in-law?" Irene teased.

Martha gave Irene the same look she'd given Mary earlier and said, "We don't speak of such evil things."

Sam led William Jones to the pavilion furthest from the noise of the party. There were several chairs, which Senator Jones quickly took advantage of while Sam leaned against the railing.

"Samuel, the answer is no," William Jones sighed as he leaned back.

"You don't even know that I'm going to ask!"

"The answer is _still_ no," William repeated.

"Give me at least one good reason why I can't marry your daughter," Sam pressed.

"I told you before," William Jones answered. "I don't like cowards."

"It's been two years!"

"A lot has changed since then, that's true. But humor me with this: what's the real reason behind you not wanting to join Wilkins' campaign?"

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sam groaned. "My father tapped you too?"

"Answer the question Samuel."

"I'm not interested in the job, sir."

"Why?" William Jones asked, "Because you spent half of your life not wanting to follow in your father's footsteps?"

"More like _all_ of my life," Sam corrected.

"Rather interesting coming from the young man who wrote a series of speeches that saved his father's Senatorial campaign," William Jones replied. "Shame too, I was quite looking forward to not having to deal with your father on the congressional floor."

"Why would you want me working for Wilkins' campaign anyway? If you win the Democratic nomination, he'd be your main competition," Sam argued.

"You have a gift with words Samuel," William explained, "and it's plainly obvious that I'm not going to be able to capitalize from it. You chose to express that talent through pen and paper and through your work with your students but that doesn't mean it can't be crafted in other ways. Besides, _who wants to have to ask the President of the United States to marry their daughter_?"

"Quinn Fabray," Sam groaned. "You talked to Quinn."

"You were the one who pushed for her to touch bases with my family again." William shrugged unapologetically. "Be careful of what you ask for."

"It's been good for her," Sam reasoned.

"It's been good for all of us," William agreed. "Look Sam, I'm not going to tell you what to do with your life, but I would suggest that you take advantage of all of your options. Besides, this time 2017, we'll be celebrating _my_ birthday."

"Not going to happen," Sam grinned.

"You plan on doing something about that Evans?" William Jones challenged as he stood.

"Maybe," Sam relented, "but are you seriously saying no?"

"I don't like cowards Mr. Evans," Senator Jones repeated, "but about two years ago you proved yourself otherwise. You haven't needed my permission since."

By the time Sam made it back to Blaine and Kurt's penthouse he was already on air, so when he opened the door to see Mercedes waiting for him, he could barely contain his excitement.

"I thought you had to be back in the studio in LA?" Sam asked as he enveloped her in his arms. Since she'd released her album and watched it go platinum, the days that they were able to spend alone had become far and few.

"I bargained for 32 hours," she explained, cuddling into his embrace. "So I figured that we could kill some time repaying Kurt and Blaine for last Christmas…"

"Yes please," Sam grinned, itching for a reason to get back at his old friend. "It'll make me feel better for temporarily selling my soul away."

"You're going to take the Wilkins' offer?" Mercedes asked.

"On a trial basis, yes," Sam said. "I spoke with Wilkins on my way over here. I'll give it four weeks as a volunteer and if I don't like it, I'm out. No hard feelings. Thank you by the way, for being the only person who didn't try to push this."

"While you do need a good shove every once and awhile, you're welcome Mister Evans," she smiled. "I want you to do whatever makes you happy Sam, though I do expect you and that bony ass of yours to make at least one trip out to L.A. Super Tuesday."

"My ass is not bony Ms. Jones," Sam replied, "and I'll drag you to that bedroom to prove my point."

"Don't worry babe, what you lack here," Mercedes grinned as she cupped his behind, "you make up for in other areas." She dragged her fingers to the front seam of his dress pants and made a show of rubbing his erection while Sam captured her lips for a long, lazy kiss.

"Why don't you head to the bedroom?" Mercedes suggested when they broke for air. "I need to get your surprise."

"I hope it involves lace," Sam growled, "and no panties."

"We'll see about that, Mr. Evans."

Like all things owned by Kurt and Blaine, their master bedroom was lavish: large California king sized bed, black silk sheets imported from Europe and a few abstract portraits plus an electrical fire place. When Sam had first come into the room to change, he'd somehow missed the note that was lying in the middle of the bed.

 _Changed the bed sheets,_ Kurt wrote. _I figured that you two would want to pay us back for the 'incident' last Christmas—which was completely his fault! Also you have reservations for tomorrow night at 6 o'clock in one of the private booths at Filomena. I convinced Chef Harris Gondelman to create a customized menu filled with your favorites. If my girl doesn't return to L.A. with a new accessory for her ring finger, I'm going to cut your dick off Evans! Enjoy!_

Sam chuckled at Kurt's assertiveness as he felt Mercedes arms wrap around his middle, the thin lace of her bodice brushing up against his back.

"There better be no panties with that outfit Mrs. Evans," Sam growled playfully.

"Evans?" Mercedes replied turning him around. "Was that supposed to be a proposal?"

"Depends, are you looking for one?" Sam teased.

"Maybe," she answered with a small smile.

"Well then," Sam began cupping her face. "I would suggest that you'd be careful of what you ask for."

Sam went back to kissing her, letting Mercedes lead the way to the bed. She pushed him onto the silk sheets and as she crawled over him said, "I don't see why. I have everything I need right here and besides I can't wait to become Mrs. Sam Evans."

Mercedes showered him with soft kisses until Sam pulled her back to say, "I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end guys. Crossing the Aisle is officially finished. I have to thank everyone for their reviews, favorite alerts, story alerts, likes on tumblr etc., it's been so much fun writing this with you guys. Now somewhere in the far future I may come back and do a one shot that's in this universe but that's not my main concern for right now. I have started a prequel and chapter 1 should be up soon. :)
> 
> As always thank you for reading! And thank you Jill for beta reading!
> 
> Much Love,
> 
> Santiva Potter


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